A gust of wind following a butterfly,
tracing patterns into the fabric of sunlight,
tripping through leaves rustling with dead secrets and
whispers of brooks fed with liquid laughter.
Laughter that echoes through rooms of a home
filled with gold clouds and the scent of smoke and incense.
A fire that warms old wooden furniture and soft pillows,
heavy with the weight of forgotten dreams.
A worn armchair, saved for soft wool and knitting,
yellowed pages of leather journals and writing.
Writing that leaves fingertips stained
with spots of ink that can never be erased.
Writing with sunrise and warmth as soul companions.
Stacks of books, letters written and never posted
Replaced with hymns and chants.
Rivers of long flowing hair.