Category: Whispers

The wind held its tongue on the edge of the pines—then spoke in the hush.
Not in thunder, not in verse—truth broke in the hush.

I sought the road, and maps, and signs that pointed me right—
But found the gate unlatched and oak, half-broke, in the hush.

The brook did not babble that morning, just shimmered and sighed,
And something in me, once bound in smoke, awoke in the hush.

The world had been loud with wanting, with clocks and fire—
But love did not stir till I let it soak in the hush.

I thought God thundered. I thought He’d split sky and stone—
But He came as a leaf, as a look, as a cloak, in the hush.

No preacher could preach what a crow taught perched on ice—
When it flew, it left a poem it never spoke, in the hush.

And so I write not to fill the page, but to fall
Into that wood, once more, once broke, in the hush.

I carried her out through the morning light,
Where dew still clung to blades of grass,
And robins stirred in gentle flight,
And time, for once, forgot to pass.

She giggled soft, a stream’s delight,
A ripple threading through the day,
More tender than the hush of night
When stars blink all their cares away.

She clutched my thumb with fingers small—
A trust too wide for words to pen.
It taught me how the great and tall
Must bow to love again, again.

Each laugh she gave, each half-formed word,
Was poetry the world can’t frame.
No lyric more alive I’ve heard
Than just the way she spoke my name.

Yet prose she is, too—clear and kind,
A daily tale my soul repeats,
A rhythm set inside my mind,
In every breath, in all heartbeats.

So if you ask what truth I keep,
What faith I guard from age or fall—
It’s her, who laughs upon my lap,
And makes the earth seem small.