Gemini in the Summer

The saw is mute; the motor’s shriek is spent, only the deep wood’s breathing argument.

A slow, profound inhale of ancient night, exhaled as silent, amber, sun-stained light.

The frantic human heart must now concede, to the green lesson rooted in the seed.

To shed the clamor, cease the hurried tread, and hear the language of the long since dead.

For stillness is the key, the opening word, where ancestors in root and moss are heard.

When all the hurried world has fallen away, the Earth remembers, and has time to say.