I found you where the birch trees lean,
their white bark peeling like quiet secrets,
soft against the hush of early morning.

The wind moved gently through their leaves,
a whisper stitched in green and gold,
as if the forest knew your name before I did.

Sunlight filtered in pale ribbons,
resting lightly on your shoulders,
turning your silence into something sacred.

We walked where roots tangled beneath us,
where the earth felt older than memory,
and every step seemed to echo with meaning.

You spoke, and even the birds paused—
mid-song, mid-flight, mid-thought—
as if your voice belonged among them.

Love did not arrive loudly then.
It came like moss across a stone,
slow, patient, impossibly certain.

The river nearby traced silver paths,

curling through shadow and light,
carrying pieces of sky along its surface.

I remember how your hand found mine,
like branches reaching without fear,
like something natural, long overdue.

The birch trees stood as witnesses,
their thin trunks bending but unbroken,
teaching us the language of resilience.

Evening gathered in soft layers,
lavender skies folding into dusk,
and still we lingered between moments.

A breeze carried the scent of rain,
cool and alive against my skin,
reminding me how quickly things can change.

Yet there, in that trembling stillness,
love rooted itself quietly,
deep beneath what we could see.

Not in promises spoken too soon,
nor in dreams too fragile to hold,
but in the steady presence of you.

The forest darkened, but not with fear—
only with the comfort of closeness,
of knowing I was not alone.

And when the stars began to gather,
caught between branches and sky,
I realized love is not a single moment.

It is the birch trees standing through seasons,
the river continuing its endless song,
the wind returning, again and again.