Laying in the mud,
the weight of the sky presses down
through the soaked air,
through the damp smell of earth and rot.

My fingers disappear beneath the surface-
not lost,just swallowed,
held by the cold patience of the ground.

There is no hurry here,
no polished hour,
only the soft sound
of insects mapping silence.

The trees watch but do not speak.
A bird lands,
then forgets me.

I breathe,
and the mud breathes back-
slow,thick,
real.