The world rearranged itself,

as though weary of its own reflection.

Walls once warm grew cold and bare,

and laughter - once thick as honey,

thinned into memory.

Time, ever the subtle thief,

slipped through my grasp with tender deceit.

I named it growth,

as if calling it holy would make it hurt less.

But every gain came burdened with loss,

and I was too proud to notice the trade.

Beyond the pane,

the old tree kept its post.

It did not flee with the seasons

nor barter its patience for ease.

It stood-solemn, unbending,

a silent psalm in bark and leaf.

Its roots held fast to the dark,

as though faith itself had taken root beneath.

Each scar upon its trunk,

a verse written by the wind,

each branch an arm raised in worship.

When storms arrived with violent tongue,

it did not curse the heavens-

it bowed.

When sunlight returned in gentle grace,

it did not boast-

it breathed.

And I, restless child of change,

envied its stillness.

The sky still blushed before sleep,

as though the day’s confessions burned upon its cheeks.

The wind still wandered the eaves,

murmuring secrets older than speech.

Even silence lingered,

faithful as the tide.

I buried it once,

beneath the iron hum of striving,

beneath the endless noise of need.

Yet silence waited,

unchanged and unoffended,

as mercy does.

When at last I turned to face it,

I found no reprimand,

only a whisper,

low and steady as breath itself.

Then I knew:

the loud things perish first.

Fame, fervor, the fever of becoming,

all ash in the mouth of time.

But the quiet things endure.

A dawn unobserved yet radiant.

A prayer half-formed yet heard.

The breath that enters unbidden.

The steadfast tree that worships by remaining.

And perhaps this is grace,

not thunder from the mountain,

but presence in the stillness.

Not miracle, but endurance.

Not a voice crying out-

but one that never ceased.

So let the world unmake itself again.

Let faces fade and years dissolve.

The silent things will tarry,

humble sentinels at the gate of change,

bearing witness to every soft resurrection

we were too hurried to behold.