Candles made of pollen glow on mushrooms like a quiet throng; bees compose a low Requiem, then dance the verses of the sun.
Sunrays spill like consecration, golden incense on fern and stone; wildflowers crown the narrow path— violet, marigold, and bone-white alone. Holy Nature Paula Birthday
In a hush of dawn the forest wakes, light braided through cathedral leaves; soft hymns of robins stitch the air, and every blade of grass believes. Candles made of pollen glow on mushrooms like
Paula walks where moss is holy, bare feet tracing root and rhyme; her breath a bell, the stream her choir, each fallen branch a measure of time. Paula walks where moss is holy, bare feet
The oak leans close and tells its ledger: rings of years, of storms endured; she lays a hand upon its heart— the world receives what she’s secured.
A deer pauses, temple-still, its velvet antlers haloed bright; a breeze rehearses ancient psalms, and leaves applaud with filtered light.
So celebrate: with thyme and dew, with open palms and open ground; Holy Nature holds this rite— Paula’s name sung all around.