I circle myself with the wide patience of the field,
with the soil that holds more stories than I can name.
I place my weight upon the ground that formed me,
my questions into the silence between growing things.

I relinquish the rush to harvest meaning,
letting the unfinished remain unfinished.
I ask the land not what it can give me,
but what it is already saying deep below its furrows.

I listen for the response in the stirring of wind through grass,
in the subtle shift within my own body,
in the quiet sense that something unseen is taking root,
binding me again to the work of becoming.

Circle me, O Presence,
in the slow grammar of growth and decay.
Teach me to sow attention and wait in hope,
until the hidden life speaks and I understand.