Evoke

Evoke the hush of dawn,
when mist drapes the hills in silver lace,
and the first light tiptoes over the meadow,
whispering secrets to the sleeping grass.

Evoke the scent of rain on cobblestones,
the petrichor rising like a quiet hymn,
as puddles gather sky‑blue reflections,
and footsteps echo in a soft, steady beat.

Evoke the taste of tea, steeped strong,
its amber swirl holding warmth in a china cup,
while the kettle sighs and the world outside
slows to the rhythm of a contented sigh.

Evoke the memory of a lullaby,
sung low by a mother’s voice, tender and sure,
its notes curling like smoke from a dying fire,
settling deep within the chambers of the heart.

In every breath, in every glance,
the past is summoned, vivid and true—
to evoke is to paint the invisible,
to make the absent present once more.