Epektasis

The world inclines its head
as olive trees do
before dawn
when no one is watching.

Mountains lower their shoulders.
Rivers forget their names.
Even the wind learns restraint
and holds its silver tongue.

The Father passes unnoticed
through the bones of the earth—
counting seeds,
aligning shadows,
teaching the stars how to wait.

Nothing announces Him.
No decree fractures the silence.
Only frost speaking to stone,
only water learning obedience.

In the granary of time
He measures history by handfuls,
stores light for later use,
and leans close
to the pulse of creation
as one listens for a child’s breath.

“All is prepared,”
says the silence.
“Let patience finish the work.”

We walk as though alone,
yet every step is borne
by centuries of mercy.
Our sighs enter a design
older than fear.

The world bends
toward the Jordan—
and we, dust with a memory of heaven,
bow with it,
trusting the unseen Hand
that joins earth to heaven
without sound.