Beneath the Veil of Waking

In the hush of one past morning,  

Before the sun ascended its golden throne,  

The world remained held in an underground dream—  

A cathedral of roots breathing in the dark.

Deep within the Earth, a silent pulse quickened,  

And I saw a new seedling coming forth,  

Breaking the dark veil to find the light,  

Its pale fingers reaching toward forgotten stars.

The dew had been laid down like a kissing blanket,  

A silver velvet cast to protect against  

The phantom touch of the Chinook winds  

Those whispered clues we’ve never learned to speak.

Above, the starlight was just fading,  

Ghostly embers retreating into the pale,  

And for a moment, I felt a deep connection  

Between all of us—the root, the star, and the bone.

We are threaded through with the same ancient longing,  

The same trembling at the edge of becoming.

Later that spring,  

The honest and vulnerable flowers bloomed,  

Unfolding their secrets to the bruising air—  

Each petal a confession, a small surrender.

I bent down to listen, to hear if I could hear their voices,  

Caught in the friction of petal and breeze,  

That soft violence where beauty meets the world  

And learns to bear its weight with grace.

This is how we walk softly in life:  

To listen to the song that hums beneath the surface,  

The ancient, wordless rhythm of the turning tide,  

The pulse that moves through stone and sleep and sky.

And when We go to sleep at night,  

The melodies still are dancing in our heads,  

A choreography of light and soil  

That lingers long after the day has fled—

Proof that we are always half-awake,  

Half-dreaming in the underground,  

Where seedlings break their shells in darkness  

And learn to reach for what they cannot see.

At a small Cafe in Santa Monica, 

  You can bear witness to the flowers that sing.