Candles made of pollen glow on mushrooms like a quiet throng; bees compose a low Requiem, then dance the verses of the sun.
In a hush of dawn the forest wakes, light braided through cathedral leaves; soft hymns of robins stitch the air, and every blade of grass believes. Holy Nature Paula Birthday
Friends arrive—fox, and crow, and child— their laughter peals like chapel bells; they stitch a garland for her hair, and stories bloom in joyous swells. Candles made of pollen glow on mushrooms like
At the meadow’s edge the river speaks in syllables of glass and song; Paula listens, offering thanks— the current carries it along. At the meadow’s edge the river speaks in
In that cathedral, earth and sky conspire to bless her passing year; each heartbeat is a psalm of green, each smile the sacrament of cheer.
Paula walks where moss is holy, bare feet tracing root and rhyme; her breath a bell, the stream her choir, each fallen branch a measure of time.
Sunrays spill like consecration, golden incense on fern and stone; wildflowers crown the narrow path— violet, marigold, and bone-white alone.