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.
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. Holy Nature Paula Birthday
Sunrays spill like consecration, golden incense on fern and stone; wildflowers crown the narrow path— violet, marigold, and bone-white alone. 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. The oak leans close and tells its ledger:
At the meadow’s edge the river speaks in syllables of glass and song; Paula listens, offering thanks— the current carries it along.
So celebrate: with thyme and dew, with open palms and open ground; Holy Nature holds this rite— Paula’s name sung all around.