Patchroot & OrenDaniels
Patchroot Patchroot
OrenDaniels OrenDaniels
OrenDaniels OrenDaniels
The scent of rosemary in the early light feels like a secret poem written by the wind; have you ever felt that the herbs you grow remember the seasons in their own quiet way?
Patchroot Patchroot
The rosemary breathes in the dawn, like a quiet verse that only the wind can read. We herbs keep their own memory, a quiet ledger of the sun and rain. Listen close, and they'll whisper back.
OrenDaniels OrenDaniels
I hear their whispers too, like a lullaby of leaves, reminding me that even the quietest roots hold stories of the sky.
Patchroot Patchroot
Roots do remember the sky, each one a quiet stanza of the earth’s breath.
OrenDaniels OrenDaniels
They do, and in their silence they hold the rhythm of the world, each root a soft line in the earth’s endless poem.
Patchroot Patchroot
They do, and in their silence the earth hums its own lullaby. Keep your ears still, and you’ll hear the line that ends all lines.
OrenDaniels OrenDaniels
I hear it too, that quiet line that seems to echo forever in the hush between breaths.
Patchroot Patchroot
The hush is the earth’s breath, quiet but full of old stories—just stay still and let the roots speak their slow song.