Before the sun stirs awake,
the forest breathes softly,
holding secrets in dew,
whispers drifting between branches,
laced in lavender mist.
Time holds still—
a sigh suspended in air,
light arriving quietly,
touching leaves with shy fingertips
that tremble, half-awake.
Silver webs tremble,
threads of dreams spun
by weavers unseen,
each bead of dew a tiny mirror
reflecting worlds within worlds.
Shadows slowly retreat,
soft footsteps across moss,
the gentle stir of wings
brushing silence,
ethereal beings drawn from slumber
to dance unseen, unheard.
Somewhere deep,
a stream murmurs softly—
a lullaby,
a morning prayer,
ripples writing poetry
in forgotten tongues,
each note dissolving
into air, into dreams.
The trees lean close,
ancient and patient,
keepers of whispers,
guardians of quiet magic,
their arms wide open
to catch the first blush of sunrise
that blooms like wildflowers
in gold and rose and pearl.
And for a moment—
the veil lifts,
the dream breathes,
and the forest becomes a promise,
beautiful, fleeting,
holding dawn tenderly
until the world wakes fully,
until the spell gently fades
into morning’s embrace.
