You Can Write

In the rolling hills just beyond their backyard, brother and sister wandered daily into the woods. They knew every bend of the stream, each leaning tree, and the way the light sifted like powdered gold through the leaves at noon.

Their parents called it “playing outside.”

But to them, it was their world.

One afternoon, the air felt different, lighter more free. They followed the stream farther than they ever had, past the thorned briars and the hollow log where the fox sometimes slept.

Then, as if the woods parted just for them, they stepped into an iridescence bubble between trees and an old school desk appeared against a tree. Inviting them in as if they were new students to this enchanted forrest.

The grass was impossibly green, glowing like emeralds kissed by sun. Tiny orbs floated above it as soft as bubbles, radiant as rainbows. A waterfall spilled gently…

Sadness creeps in during my lonely nights. The pain is too much to bear. The closed doors And cut cords Bring darkness

Into my life.

Broken hearts Play tenderly tonight.

Swinging hope

Into tomorrow's

daylight.

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In the soft curl of moss and mist, where stories are not spoken but felt, the rabbits tell it this way…

An aging woman, with hands like worn pages of a well loved book, brushes a tiny bug from the cheek of her baby girl.

The gesture is small, but in the language of rabbits, it echoes like a bell through the forest.

The girl reaches instinctively into those worn hands not just for balance, but for knowing. For remembering something older than words.

A love language that crosses dimensions.

A connection where words fall away.