how lovely blooms the blossom in peaceful, quiet fields where time forgets to hurry and the breeze moves like a whisper, brushing past tall grasses that sway without reason except to feel the morning. the sky is streaked in shades of orange and pink, light breaking gently through the clouds— not urgent, just arriving— a gentle unfolding, like thought before it turns to speech. the morning drips with silence on petals fresh with dew, each drop a small secret the earth has kept since the first spring. i walk without purpose, only presence, while the flowers open and the day begins without asking for anything at all.