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When I speak your name
time loosens its grip
moments drift down like petals.
Perhaps that slowing
is love itself.
Even in your absence,
beneath the leaning shade of a tree,
Your smile slips into my memories,
quietly tinting them with color.
On old roads, as I walk,
before the rain learns how to fall,
the scent of wet earth
whispers confidences
straight to the heart.
Nature, too, resembles love.
It never insists on speech,
yet becomes the one sound
that fills the mind.
Days turn like pages
some smooth to the touch,
Others scarred and uneven.
Together, they are called Life.
And within those scars,
not the cuts themselves,
but the tender light that rests upon them
is the song our journey hums.
Philosophy, after all,
is not the art of answers,
but the courage to hold a question steady:
Who are we?
Are we currents, endlessly moving?
Leaves carried away by the flow?
Or the shores where questions
settle and harden into stone?
Elsewhere, memories walk on
their footsteps never slowing.
A song is enough:
it crosses fields and farmlands,
sets us down gently
at the threshold of an old house.
There the first smile of love,
a foolish hope that once carved poetry into a tree,
returns like an evening breeze.
So then
If love is a seed,
Nature is its soil,
life the sprout, philosophy its direction,
and memory the sweet shade
falling beneath the tree.
When all of this converges,
a story is born
ours.
An endless walking onward,
meaning glowing even within weariness.
The heart is a river.
The sea may be its destination,
Yet the journey teaches us
The flow matters more
than the shore it reaches.
Image Copyright - Varala Anand |
