Calm Is Found Where Water Falls

Hidden deep where wild things grow,
beyond the paths most walkers know,
a waterfall begins its song—
not sharp or strong, but soft and long.

It slips from the rock in silver threads;
like whispered thoughts, the silence spreads.
Each streamlet curves with tender grace,
a dance of light on the stone’s worn face.

Some glimmer bright like woven glass,
while others, fading, barely pass.
A breath, a hush, a drifting mist
that meets the earth as if it’s kissed.

Below, a pool both clear and deep
holds echoes where the shadows sleep.
Amber light and ripples play,
then still themselves and fade away.

Beneath its skin lie ancient stones,
in muted reds and softened tones.
Untouched by hands, by noise, by flame—
just time and water’s quiet claim.

The air is cool; the moss smells sweet,
the dampness clings to skin and feet.
It tastes of rain and rooted things,
of fern, and bark, and folded wings.

Around, the grass bows low and wet
with morning tears not shaken yet.
Green ferns peek out through cracks in stone,
as if they’ve made this peace their own.

The rocks are old and do not speak,
but still they hold the calm you seek.
Their coats of moss, a velvet green,
glow soft beneath the light unseen.

No birds disturb the drifting air—
no sudden sound, no urgent care.
Just water’s voice, a hush that calls,
the lull of where the quiet falls.

And standing there, you feel it grow—
the kind of peace few ever know.
Not empty space, but something near
that fills the heart and draws it clear.

It doesn’t shout or ask to stay;
it simply is, and shows the way—
a truth that flows, yet never stalls:
that calm is found where water falls.