Rustic Tracery

Sunlight dances
nibbled slowly by
the waning echo
of rustling leaves.
O rustic whispers— tracing paths of
unsettled serenity
through yawning meadows.

Especially when dusk,
the delicate hush hangs
upon murmuring branches,
full of sleeping bird songs,
softly lulled, beguiled
by twilight's breath,
as fireflies begin to weave
dreams across the sky.

On whispered paths we
stumble, understanding
that silence speaks only
in the colors folded
behind stars stirring
at the fringe—sleep
trailing beneath their wings.