the bluish-green sheen of the lily pads,
is illuminating a path upstream;
blanketed by a properly tuned brook —
that hides a shimmering truot humming
a gentle melody to stay quiet.
two superstitious forgs, squinting under the light of,
a few constellations;
are seeking solace from an uphill trek —
a long night — under the sliver of a silver gleam.
a rhythmic hum — captivates their attention —
as the foothills of the mountains,
peacefully send a route for their croaks to flash.
non-linear intersections,
depending on the reason of the season —
a comprehension of fluidity.
of our intersecting wavelengths.
we will become geese;
that drift slowly and gently, without apprehension.
if we collide too soon,
we'll recalibrate, go back to our roots.
we will use the fibers, cells, and particles,
of our beings,
to collide at the right time.
the bodies of particles, structured myriads,
colliding with an incredible force of aquamarine.
reactions impossible to unhook —
buried mumbling —
beneath a veil they tried to hide it.