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.