In the early morning mist, the dew lies like a hymn upon the bent blades of grass. Each droplet holds a world, a slant of light; a lover’s breath, inducing reverent silence.

A blossom pushes forth, unfurling, fragile but bold, while time threads its needle, stitching warmth into the air. Each pulse of creation, a balm, restoring the heart of the earth.

Across the expanse of meadow, the horizon softly blurs, colors dissolve into whispers, where every shadow weaves a story.

In this outstretched canvas, embrace me in the morning’s glow; we are but transient notes, dancing upon the canvas of the infinite.

• Eugène Guillevic