What waits beyond the whispering hill,
Where branches lean with secrets still?
A shimmer stirs behind the trees—
A breath of thought upon the breeze.

The meadow bends as if to speak,
Its grasses rustle, soft and sleek,
Like pages turned by unseen hands
That write-in winds across the lands.

A flicker glints where shadows play,
Then slips like light too shy to stay.
What might it be—a trick, a truth?
A childhood dream escaped from youth?

The path is worn by none you know,
Yet something bids your feet to go.
Not fear, not flight—but something more,
Like tapping gently at a door.

Each step is a question, undefined,
Each sounds like a riddle, half-designed.
And though the end remains unknown,
You walk, and feel your mind has grown.

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Shane Rounce on Unsplash