Silence has a sound

Silence has a sound,

a whisper older than wind,

soft as dust drifting over dunes.

It hums in the hush between waves,

in the pause before a desert breeze stirs.

Only a few can hear it—

those who sit long with the sun,

who listen with their skin,

and feel the echo in their bones.

Silence has a sound,

low as a breath beneath moonlight,

folded in shadows where stars keep watch.

It lingers in the spaces between owl calls,

in the hush after a midnight sigh.

Only a few can hear it—

those who walk softly through dreams,

who speak in candlelight,

and listen to the dark without fear.

Silence has a sound,

like moss breathing beneath ancient trees,

like roots speaking in slow, green tongues.

It rustles in the stillness after birdsong,

in the quiet communion of leaves and light.

Only a few can hear it—

those who walk barefoot among ferns,

who wait for the language of bark and breeze,

and feel the forest listening back.

Silence has a sound,

deep as the pause between waves,

blue and endless like the sea’s slow breath.

It drifts in the swell before the tide turns,

in the stillness where sunlight barely reaches.

Only a few can hear it—

those who float without anchor or fear,

who sink into the hush below storms,

and listen to the heart of water dreaming.