s t i l l h e r e

s t i l l h e r e . . .

Some things don’t ask for attention.

They just stay.

Weathered but standing, tucked into the edge of the woods,

this little place holds the light like it’s meant to.

You can almost hear the quiet.

Fall leans in around it, gentle and golden.

You don’t have to move fast to matter.

You just have to last.