September 5. 2025
When I was small, the earth held my hands like they were seeds. I pressed my palms to the earth and heard its voice: sing, laugh, weep. And then I knew the truth of things.
The sun pressed warmth into my curls, the wind carried secrets through the grass, and the gate at the edge of the field never closed. I listened, though no one told me to.
Back then, the world sang without hesitation. I belonged without asking. I believed without doubt.
Time, though, is a quieter teacher.
At twenty-five, I still moved as though the earth were alive inside me. I ran barefoot, painted the colors of the wind, sang to the pines, and felt them sing back. The Mountain claimed me as its own, and I did not question it. Why would I, when the melody of the world was tuned to my heartbeat, to my soul?
Now, at forty, the songs have thinned. The leaves still fall, but I do not dance through them. I walk. Slowly. Listening. Waiting.
The White Stag does not linger beneath the pines. The wolf at my hearth grows weary. The Mountain no longer answers when I cry out, except in silence that deepens like snow.
And yet I remain. Because even silence remembers. And sometimes, when the wind lifts my hair, or the earth hums faintly beneath my bare feet, I feel the old song waiting, just beyond reach.
I breathe. I listen.
I remember.
Notes:
‘a man called River’ was born in the pages of Endlessly Falling Leaves, available on Amazon in paperback and e-book/Kindle
