I am tired. 
Not the tired of muscles or minds
but of marrow,
the kind that comes
when the world forgets how to be gentle.

These storms don’t knock anymore.
They split the sky
like something breaking loose
from deep beneath remorse, and
the air hangs heavy with things
we won’t name.

I remember
the creek curling like a secret
past trees thick with birdsong,
light skipping across water
like laughter I could see.

I want that again—
the frogs, the ferns,
the quiet language of dew
on the shoulders of dawn.
I want the hills to hum
the way they did before
we asked too much
and gave too little.

I need rest
not just sleep,
but the peace I imagine
exists when the land
is whole,
when wind is just wind
and not warning,
when rain doesn’t raise the creeks in minutes
causing them to engulf everything in their path,
when heat and drought don’t crack
open soil and parch plants.

Let the world soften.
Let the wild things flourish.
Let us find a way
back.