Longing can grow

"Existence itself is a kind of love."

Dec 22, 2025

The soundtrack for this poem:

Sun drifts lazily across petals,
a slow hand tracing the curve of green.
Morning opens like a chord,
soft, hesitant, then ringing.

Leaves lean toward it,
stretching without knowing why,
their veins vibrating with a quiet hum
no one can measure.
Nectar tastes of sunlight and memory,
the sweetness lingers
long after it is gone.

Blossoms shift in rhythm with wind,
a rhythm that whispers,
stay, bend, sway,
and let the world pass over you.
The colour is loud,
but not bragging.
Just insistence that life
is still listening.

Underneath, roots murmur in dark soil,
pulling quietly,
never seen, never praised.
They remember storms, droughts, hunger.
They remember patience.

Some nights, the hum slows.
The petals droop.
The chord wavers,
asking if it still matters,
if anyone still notices
the soft music
between one day and the next.

And yet, the sun rises,
leaves shake,
light bends,
and the plant, still small, still green,
keeps its own secret song.

Even when longing grows
like morning mist,
even when the wind seems absent,
the melody persists,
vibrating through every hidden vein,
proclaiming quietly
that existence itself
is a kind of love.