knotty cypress
The hills roll like old hymns,
soft and slow beneath a sky
that’s trying to remember how to forgive.
Hay bales sit like punctuation
in a sentence the earth has been writing
since before we had words for longing.
There’s a hush here—
not silence, but the kind of quiet
that knows how to hold you
without asking questions.
The sun breaks through like a memory,
not gentle, but necessary,
spilling across the fields
like something returning
after years of being gone.
I could live here.
Not forever,
but long enough to remember
what it feels like
to be held by something
that doesn’t need me to explain.
dull tiger