When your gaze found mine, the whole world swayed, As if the earth had missed a hidden beat; The sunlight suddenly grew unafraid, Then melted like warm gold around my feet. I tried to look away, but something stayed, A trembling little universe in you; My eyes became two doors I could not close, And every secret seemed to wander through. I felt my cheeks turn roses in the rain, A sudden fire underneath my skin; The stars began to whisper my sweet shame, While little suns kept blooming from within. Your eyes were not just eyes, they were a place, A strange blue room where gravity was gone; I wandered through the silence of your gaze And somehow lost the person I was on. My heartbeat stumbled, then forgot its name, It ran barefoot through corridors of light; I blushed as though the moon had called me beautiful, Then hid my face from heaven's watching sight. The trees leaned closer, jealous of the view, The flowers opened wider just to see; Even the wind became unusually shy, As thoug...
Don't ask yourself why you
became a season
before your time.
The earth has never owed
its flowers an explanation.
Nature wanted it this way,
not because loss is beautiful,
but because permanence
would have silenced the wind.
Look at the trees.
They never decide
when to become less.
They simply awaken one morning
to the invisible hands of the sky
undoing them,
leaf by leaf,
until every green memory
learns the language of falling.
Still,
their roots remain
conversing with darkness
as though light
were only a rumor
that keeps its promises.
Perhaps that is what faith is:
to be emptied
without believing
you have ended.
The branches,
thin as unanswered prayers,
continue pointing upward
even after the birds
have mistaken them
for abandoned places.
There is a wisdom
the leaves never carry,
only the trunk can know:
that what departs
does not betray the tree;
it fulfills it.
So when the wind
writes its invisible scripture
across your life,
do not interrupt it
with the question why.
The forest has never asked
why winter arrives.
It stands,
unclothed before heaven,
knowing that every falling thing
is secretly
making room
for the impossible weight
of spring.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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