The Gentle Drift

In the stillness of night

an ancient tree drifts on calm water,

its roots loose from earth,

its branches brushing the stars.

Candles float beside it,

each flame a tiny heartbeat

in the vast, dark hush.

Their light dances on the surface—

wavering gold,

soft ripples folding into themselves,

reflections merging

with shadow and moon.

The tree glides without intent,

carried only by the quiet.

No beginning,

no destination—

just the gentle drift

of being.

Here,

between flame and reflection,

between water and sky,

all things pause

and become simple again—

a single moment,

unbroken.