for the first harvest, for the changing light, for those who grow quietly
Black and orange with spots of white
Gliding through the morning light—
Fates unknown ’til Gaia calls them home,
To rest, transform, or onward roam.
Blossoms bloom in milkweed’s name—
Orange, pink, and white, the flame.
They drink, they dance, they mate, they spin
A story soft as whispered skin.
Beneath green leaves, so still, so small,
They inch and curl and barely crawl.
Until the yearning grows too loud—
They weave their own translucent shroud.
In silence held, they shift, they swell—
Each thread a stitch in nature’s spell.
From child to wingéd sovereign born,
Adorned with gold, the veil is torn.
So too do we, in cycles spun,
Unravel with the setting sun.
The bright half wanes, the shadows grow—
And still, we move, and still, we go.
Our skin is soft, our time is brief,
We molt in silence, shed our grief.
Each turning year, each breath we take,
A choice to rise, a chance to break.
In falling leaves and colder skies,
We find the truths we once let lie.
That life is change, and change is grace—
A softer light, a slower pace.
Like monarchs borne on unseen streams,
We chase the edge of quiet dreams.
To pause, to rest, to disappear—
Then rise anew another year.
🕊️
With this psalm, I offer intentions of prosperity, abundance, goodwill, and peace for all who pass through the Dreamspace. May the first harvest nourish you. May the coming season unfold in grace.
