Candles made of pollen glow on mushrooms like a quiet throng; bees compose a low Requiem, then dance the verses of the sun.
So celebrate: with thyme and dew, with open palms and open ground; Holy Nature holds this rite— Paula’s name sung all around. Holy Nature Paula Birthday
The oak leans close and tells its ledger: rings of years, of storms endured; she lays a hand upon its heart— the world receives what she’s secured. Candles made of pollen glow on mushrooms like
At the meadow’s edge the river speaks in syllables of glass and song; Paula listens, offering thanks— the current carries it along. At the meadow’s edge the river speaks in
In a hush of dawn the forest wakes, light braided through cathedral leaves; soft hymns of robins stitch the air, and every blade of grass believes.
Paula walks where moss is holy, bare feet tracing root and rhyme; her breath a bell, the stream her choir, each fallen branch a measure of time.
Night lays down its velvet veil, stars like votives, steady, far; Paula breathes the sacred hush— the world a liturgy of star.