Long before the world found its noise,
there was a field.
And in that field,
the sunflowers had already chosen their direction,
as though memory itself
had taught them how to turn.
Green returned each season
without asking permission.
Red lingered beneath what could not be seen,
quiet, like something the soil refused to forget.
Beyond the last stretch of earth,
where the land softened into distance,
a body of water waited.
Some called it a lake.
Some called it an ocean.
The name never changed what it was doing.
Returning, always returning,
to a shore that never moved closer.
The wind passed through without ownership,
carrying fragments of unseen places
and setting them down again
where no one was watching.
An old Book rested at the edge of the field,
half held by grass, half surrendered to earth.
Its pages turned without touch,
as though even silence knew how to read.
Most walked past it
without ever realizing it had spoken.
But the field listened.
And those who stayed long enough to notice
would sometimes see it.
Not often. Never clearly.
That among the countless heads of gold,
there were moments when stillness repeated itself in pattern,
as if something unseen had answered something else
no one could name.
No path connected what stood apart.
No voice crossed the distance between them.
And yet, the same light touched everything at once,
without ever arriving the same way twice.
The water did not explain itself.
Neither did the wind.
The Book did not hurry to be understood.
It simply remained.
And the field, as it always had,
kept turning
toward the Morning.
Willie Torres Jr
06/24/2026
@BeingCrazyForChrist
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