I think God must’ve had a wild imagination.
Look at it all
buffalo built from thunder,
rams balanced on cliffs like stubborn prayers,
oceans breathing in and out
without ever getting tired
.
We were meant to move like this
not to chase something better,
but to witness what already is:
to hear a waterfall born from a stream
whose endurance carved out canyons over time,
to see the leaves trade green for fire
before falling into their quiet rest,
to understand that everything
has its own season of growth and surrender.
The art of noticing.
The desire to live before we vanish.
I go to places that make me feel small,
where my daily anxieties fall hush,
and the air reminds me I’m temporary.
To look into the eyes of life
so different from my own
it’s holy.
And when I feel the pull of ghosts,
I don’t flinch.
I see them as life wearing another mask
energy reshaped,
still seeking light.
A beauty in the haunting,
not of horror,
but of memory refusing to be erased.
To wander is to worship.
It’s how I say thank you
without using words by seeing.
By standing still in awe
of how much life there is,
and how fiercely
it wants to stay alive.
They say we die, but no
we scatter.
We change shape.
Find new ways to shimmer.