through the hills, a melody of bubbles,
rocks, and reasons. Bare December
trees look down on honest, leafy blankets
covering rocky ground. Follow the call
of moving water; it speaks of patience
and travels that never end, only pick up
leaves to carry along the way. Moss
wraps rocks in green warmth, whispers
them secrets of softness and holding on.
And then, the light filters gently, with hope,
kissing the water into swirls and drops,
sounds of you everywhere.