The Lanterns of the Wind

A hush before the wind,

a breath held tight in the trees,

as twilight paints the skies with dusk-thinned ink,

and every shadow begins to breathe with ease.

Then, from nowhere and everywhere, they arrive—

soft, golden flickers, dancing without a sound.

Not in flocks, but in rhythms known only to them,

they weave between the reeds and gather round.

Lanterns of the wind, they’re called,

not for what they are, but what they remind.

Bits of light with no cord or flame,

just memory and magic intertwined.

Some drift slow, like forgotten dreams,

hovering above the hush of mossy stone.

Others race the breeze with wild delight,

chasing each other through branches overgrown.

Children watch from cracked verandas,

grandmothers whisper tales of old,

that each light holds a secret wish,

or carries a story never told.

You might see one near your window,

lingering just outside your pane,

and if you blink too fast or breathe too loud,

it vanishes like a name lost in rain.

They do not light the sky like stars—

no, they glow in places stars forget.

In hollow trees and sleepy fields,

in corners of silence where no regrets are met.

Some fly low, near roots and stone,

where the air is thick and still.

Others lift toward the open dark,

on instinct alone, on wonder and will.

They do not seek a destination,

no finish line, no need to arrive.

They flicker simply because they must—

because in that flicker, they survive.

So if you find yourself in summer’s hush,

as night and wind begin to blend,

pause and look — really look —

for the soft return of the Lanterns of the Wind.