Upon the listening earth you stand,
Bare feet pressed on breathing land,
And in the hush before the thought,
You hear what can’t be taught or sought.

 

The wind does not explain itself,
Nor does the moon translate her glow—
Yet still, they speak in ways you hear
That only inner quiet knows.

 

The grasses lean, the rivers bend,
Not out of need, but deep consent—
A yielding to some vaster thread
That weaves the living and the dead.

 

You feel it in the love soaked air,
A presence wrapped in moving things—
The way a bird’s wide-circled flight
Means more than just the tilt of wings.

 

Walk as if the land
Remembers where your feet should fall.
Trust the quiet between the stars.
You are already held by all.

 

So let the forest breathe to you,
And stream compose your pace—
And know, without a single word,
The deepest truths are heard with grace.

 

The trees don’t speak in human terms,
But still they let you know—
In the space between two heartbeats
And the way the branches grow.

 

A shadow moves, a sparrow turns,
And something shifts inside—
A compass not of thought or map,
But pulled by softest tide.

 

You feel it in the mountain still,
The murmurs of the loam,
A sense that where you stand right now
Is always close to home.

No voice descends from some far height,
No writing lights the air,
But every wave and falling leaf
Says: You are loved and we do care.