Poem: We Are All Visitors

We are all visitors

in the end.

How lightly we tread.

Trully.

Nothing matters forever.

Thankfully.

And how freeing is that?

How like the birds and the bees are we?

We may leave a footprint,
a mark,
something someone may someday discover and pause beside.

A handprint in stone.
A worn path through grass.
A tool left behind.
A pressed flower between pages.
A name written in fading ink,

or scratched into wood.

Someone may look back and wonder.

But they will never fully see us.

Only traces.

Only evidence that we were here,
that we loved something,
that we gathered,
that we carried,
that we cared enough to leave a small tenderness behind.

We are all visitors, but for a time.

And somehow—

how lovely,
how freeing,
that feels.

How like the birds and the bees we are.

We are all but visitors after all.

🕊️🌿🐝✨