The Path Beckons

It begins without asking—
a sweep of gravel through the hush,
where the trees lean in
as if to overhear something forgotten.
White blossoms flicker
like thoughts that almost
make themselves known,
but fall back before forming.
The branches are bare,
but they hold the air like memory—
stretched,
not empty.

You step, and the silence
shifts to meet you.
It’s not direction
you’re following,
but a kind of listening.