If there existed but one soul on earth,
the world—a canvas, half-painted by his foot—
he’d listen to trees whisper,
branches bantering in the wind.
He’d hear the ocean plead for the moon,
waves rising, falling, singing their longing.
He’d watch the clouds embrace,
clinging to the sun’s warmth
until they wept in quiet raindrops.
He’d learn the silent language
of those who never speak.
Grinding ochre into crimson,
diluting it with the depth of the sea,
binding it with the sweetness of honey,
he’d write—
with ink and longing—
of company, of love,
of the majesty of nature,
of loss for something unseen,
yet deeply desired.
He’d pour his grief onto palm leaves,
hoping red would breathe life into another—
a soul he's never met,
but is destined to dream of.
©umclite
U