Poetry

Price

Price In market stalls where voices rise, A quiet ledger holds the ties— Each coin exchanged, a whispered trade, The worth of things that hands have made. Not only gold nor silvered gleam, But

Psalm

In the hushed nave where morning light pools pale, A psalm rises, soft as the sigh of summer rain, Each line a thread of wool woven through the stone, Binding the faithful to

Never

Never In the hush of twilight, I whisper never, A word that folds like mist over the lake, Never to chase the sunrise that will not break, Never to taste the salt of tears

Which

Which In the hush between two thoughts, the word “which” lingers like a mist, a soft‑spun thread that pulls at the seams of every choice we have yet to make. It

Micro

Micro whispers in the quiet night, Tiny worlds unseen to naked sight. A drop of dew holds galaxies— Each bacterium a star, each spore a dream. In the lab’s hushed glow, the

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