At the meadow’s edge the river speaks in syllables of glass and song; Paula listens, offering thanks— the current carries it along.
Sunrays spill like consecration, golden incense on fern and stone; wildflowers crown the narrow path— violet, marigold, and bone-white alone. Holy Nature Paula Birthday
A deer pauses, temple-still, its velvet antlers haloed bright; a breeze rehearses ancient psalms, and leaves applaud with filtered light. At the meadow’s edge the river speaks in
So celebrate: with thyme and dew, with open palms and open ground; Holy Nature holds this rite— Paula’s name sung all around. So celebrate: with thyme and dew, with open
Night lays down its velvet veil, stars like votives, steady, far; Paula breathes the sacred hush— the world a liturgy of star.
In a hush of dawn the forest wakes, light braided through cathedral leaves; soft hymns of robins stitch the air, and every blade of grass believes.
Candles made of pollen glow on mushrooms like a quiet throng; bees compose a low Requiem, then dance the verses of the sun.