Whispering Wyrd

The mountains do not stand, they watch.
Their granite faces remember the first dawn
and whisper names in the language of stone.

The streams do not flow, they sing.
They coil around my feet like silver serpents,
telling stories older than the bones in the earth.

The forest does not grow, it breathes.
Each tree is a guardian, each root a memory,
and when I pass beneath their boughs, they bend to bless me.

Ravens wheel above, not as birds but as heralds,
carrying messages from the unseen,
their cries opening doorways I once thought were sky.

I do not seek the Sacred, because the Sacred seeks us all,
folding me into its timeless embrace.
And so I walk without fear,
because even the stars lean close in the dark
to remind me that light is not conquered
it only waits, as patient as love.

~Buck