I walk & ask for a word
not from books or sermons
but from the sounds between
a pigeon’s wing & tree root’s dream

I ask the breeze what names it carries
what syllables it weaves into the air

Sometimes a leaf answers
sometimes the crack in the sidewalk sighs

When the word arrives
it is soft as breath
and sharp as longing

I do not chase its meaning
I cradle it
I turn it in my heart
like a river stone
polishing with presence
but not polishing away

Then the world begins to respond
in signs, in songs
in strangers who speak it without knowing

This is not instruction
but invitation

Let the word be a seed
silent & sacred

Let it grow where it wills
not in thought
but in soul