Outside the skylight, morning breathes—
not a riddle, not a veil,
but a hand stretched open,
steady as the oak that keeps its watch.
The sky is not abyss but garment,
woven blue, a shawl of ease;
its quiet folds smooth out the creases
that the day had pressed upon my brow.
The trees do not whisper secrets,
they speak plainly:
we are here, we endure,
and in our rootedness, you may rest.
No sphinx, no silence heavy with dread—
only the brush of night’s last sigh,
and the promise that even in darkness
companionship is near,
and light will always return.
.
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Author:
crypticbard (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: October 12th, 2025 05:40
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 3
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments1
Another lovely write Cryptic. I love your metaphors they weave an allegory simple to understand. This one speaks to me of nature's language that we in our arrogance overlook and pretend not to understand. The simplicity of nature ignored feeling somehow we are superior and only the hidden and enigmatic is worthy of our exploration.
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