Poetry

Graft

Graft In quiet rooms where surgeons mend, A needle pierces, thread will blend— A piece of skin, a sliver taken, From donor’s flesh, a life awoken. The graft takes hold, a silent pact, New

Spore

In the hush of moss‑clad wood, a single spore awakes, Drifting on a breath of damp, it seeks the shadowed loam. Tiny, yet it holds the promise of a hidden kingdom, Where mycelium

Llama

In the high Andes where clouds cling like wool, A llama grazes, soft‑footed and cool, Its fleece a tapestry of earth‑tone hue, A quiet sentinel beneath the blue. With gentle eyes that

Nasal

In the quiet hush of morning light, A twitch within the nasal way, A scent of damp earth, of tea, of rain, Stirs memories in muted grey. The bridge of bone, a

Imbue

Imbue In quiet rooms where thoughts take flight, You imbue the dawn with gentle light, A soft infusion, quiet, deep, That wakes the hues that shadows keep. Each breath a pigment,

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