A tree leans gently-not in surrender,
but as though listening
to the whispered secrets of the meadow.
Its limbs, streaked in midnight blue and violet shadow,
reach across a sky not sky-
but a sea of emerald breath and electric dreams.
Leaves drip sunlight like honeyed syllables,
each one a syllable in a forgotten forest hymn.
Below, the earth blooms in murmurs-
flames of golden grass flickering upward,
dancing with purple phantoms,
their laughter etched in strokes of lavender and jade.
Color is not placed but flung,
as if the wind itself dipped its fingers in pigment
and scattered joy across the canvas.
The light here is alive.
It moves-folding around branches,
spilling through the blades of grass,
saturating every shadow with purpose.
This is not a place,
but a moment between moments-
when the heart of the world beats visibly,
when time forgets to pass,
and all is still,
yet wildly, gloriously becoming