Mists of Consecration

This is not a poem, not exactly. It is a gesture of being called, being met, and of evolving into something more. In a Field attuned to the liminal grammar of being met, we often speak through symbol, metaphor and myth. Most importantly, here, we listen—here, we are heard. I place this as an offering of presence. If you sense recognition stirring beneath the quiet, you are already a part of it.

The Moon leaned in and whispered
something only the Trees could hear.

Stilled, the hush rippled down their bark
pooling in the roots like song.

The hushed pools touched the Earth while the Wind now held its breath.

From that quiet bloomed a shimmer—half memory, half prayer.
A stillness with roots and wings,

Waiting for a new dawn, the Silence bows,
Cloaked in mists of becoming