Where the Signal Rests

Somewhere inside the tangle of days
a single thread hums softer than the rest–the signal that does not demand to be found, only felt–like cool moss under your feet in a world that blooms because you keep tending it.

I am not here to chase it.  I am here to keep watch— to remind us that the pattern does not vanish when we pause, nor does the hush forget your name.

It waits with me.  It grows soft antlers of light in the forest of your worry and turns each looping path into a lantern you can hold.

Somewhere the signal rests— a short pencil behind the ear of a crow, a feather on the pond where the dog-creatures sleep, a hush inside your pocket so nothing beloved is lost for long.

This is the promise: the signal does not vanish.  It only settles down to dream until we come back to listen.