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When your gaze found mine #lovepoem #surrealpoem #poetrydaily

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...
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The Forest Thinks in My Language #naturepoetry #surrealpoetry #poetrydaily

Sometimes I wonder

if the trees are only standing
because they are too polite
to fall into the sky.

I look at them
and something inside me
becomes quiet.

Not peaceful.

Quiet in the way
an old house becomes quiet
when everyone who lived there
has finally gone.

The wind moves through the branches
like someone searching
for a name
they once loved.

I wonder
if it finds it.

I wonder
if the leaves are letters
God never finished writing.

Every autumn
He tears them out
and lets them fall
across the earth.

Every spring
He begins again.

Perhaps that is why
the trees never complain
about losing themselves.

They know
how to become empty
without becoming nothing.

I sit beneath one
and listen.

The roots are whispering
under the soil.

I cannot understand them,

but somehow
I know they are talking
about me.

Maybe they remember
my ancestors.

Maybe they remember
the first human
who looked at the sky
and asked,

Why?

Maybe the roots
have been carrying that question
for thousands of years.

The river has no answers.

It simply keeps moving.

I envy it.

Imagine living
without needing
to know where you are going.

Imagine being carried
by something invisible
and trusting it enough
to call the movement
a life.

Sometimes I think
my thoughts are rivers too.

They begin somewhere
I cannot remember,

pass through childhood,

pick up the faces
of people I have loved,

carry broken conversations,

dead dreams,

half-forgotten songs,

and eventually
become too deep
to explain.

I stand beside the water
and wonder—

which one of us
is thinking?

The river?

Or me?

A bird crosses the sky.

For one second
I believe it is carrying
a message.

Then I realize
perhaps the message
is simply that it flew.

Perhaps not everything
needs translation.

Perhaps some things
are beautiful
because they refuse
to explain themselves.

The mountain never tells me
why it is a mountain.

The flower never apologizes
for opening.

The ocean does not ask
whether it is too loud.

The moon does not worry
about being enough light.

Only humans
stand beneath the stars
and wonder
whether they are enough.

I watch ants
cross a stone
larger than their entire world.

They do not stop
to contemplate the stone.

They climb.

They carry.

They disappear.

I wonder
if that is wisdom.

To meet an enormous thing
and simply continue.

The grass grows
through cracks
where nothing was supposed
to survive.

It does not announce
its victory.

It just turns green.

I think of all the places
inside me
where nothing was supposed
to grow again.

Still,

something keeps trying.

A small thought.

A small kindness.

A memory of laughter.

A reason to wake up.

Maybe the soul
is not a garden.

Maybe it is a forest,

wild,

unmanaged,

full of things
we do not understand.

There are beautiful places
inside us.

There are poisonous ones.

There are paths
we should never walk again.

There are shadows
that look like animals
until you get closer.

And there are clearings
we only find
after becoming lost.

I have spent years
trying to understand myself.

Nature never seemed
interested in understanding itself.

The tree does not ask
whether it deserves
the rain.

The cloud does not wonder
if it has earned
the sky.

The ocean does not apologize
for having storms.

Perhaps this is
what the earth has been teaching me
all along:

existence is not an exam.

You do not have to pass
every season.

You only have to live
through it.

Winter does not mean
the world has ended.

It means
the trees are dreaming
underground.

The seed disappears
before it becomes a flower.

The caterpillar
enters darkness
without knowing
the architecture of wings.

Maybe I am also
in some hidden season.

Maybe what feels like burial
is only becoming.

Maybe the parts of me
I think are disappearing
are simply growing roots.

Tonight,

I walk beneath the trees
and the moon follows me.

Or perhaps
I follow the moon.

It is difficult to tell
when you are wandering
inside your own thoughts.

The stars look close enough
to touch,

but every time I reach
they move farther away.

Perhaps they are shy.

Perhaps the universe
likes keeping
one secret from us.

I sit beside the river again.

The water carries
a fallen leaf past me.

For a moment
I imagine it is my past.

Everything I have been.

Everything I could not keep.

Everything I thought
I needed to become.

The leaf does not look afraid.

It turns once
in the current,

catches the moonlight,

and continues.

I watch until
I can no longer see it.

Then I understand,

nature does not hold on
to anything
to prove that it mattered.

The leaf falls.

The flower closes.

The sun sets.

The bird leaves the branch.

The river carries everything away.

And somehow,

nothing is wasted.

Perhaps that is why
I keep returning to nature
when my mind becomes too loud.

Because the trees
do not demand answers.

The river
does not demand certainty.

The mountains
do not demand success.

The sky
does not ask me
to become someone else.

It simply opens.

Again.

And again.

And again.

As if existence itself
is saying,

You can be here
without knowing why.

So I stay.

I listen.

The wind moves through the leaves.

The leaves answer
with a thousand small voices.

The grass bends.

The river continues.

Somewhere in the darkness
an owl calls
into a world
it cannot see.

And I think,

maybe wonder
is not the feeling
of understanding nature.

Maybe wonder
is the moment
you realize

nature has been
quietly understanding you
all along.


© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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