Wander through the burrowed light, 
mud-packed walls breathing warmth, 
a kettle thrums—no rush, just the steady, 
unbroken rhythm of being.

Hands work the earth, kneading sun into soil, 
tucking seeds deep where roots raise memory.

Footsteps soften against moss, 
small strides, sure and deliberate, 
paths well-trodden yet never worn.

Bread breaks, laughter follows, 
cups filled, emptied, filled again— 
contentment settling into the bones.

Beyond the hills, the world clamours, 
but here, time folds neatly, 
days measured in meals, 
life shaped by hearth and harvest.

This is enough.