The Burrow
a hush beneath the hum of the world,
carved by paw or claw or time’s quiet insistence.
A hollow stitched in earth’s dark under breath,
where roots dangle like forgotten chandeliers
and the soil holds its secrets close.
It is a cradle of stillness,
a sanctuary shaped from necessity —
warmth scraped from cold,
shelter borrowed from silence.
Here, light does not trespass,
only the sound of breath and heartbeat,
slow and deliberate
as moss growing in shadow.
A burrow is not escape—
it is a return.
To the below, the before,
to the tender memory
of being hidden and whole.
"Ho is you, okay?"
I ask myself most days.
Where warmth is scraped and silence learned,
Where my hidden heart has grown.
A world beneath the trampling feet,
Where the shadows feel like you.
This place was made from quiet need,
Not weakness, not despair.
But the soft and urgent way we bleed,
When safety lives down there.
This is not retreat from pain,
But a shelter drawn from stone.
A space where sorrow has a name,
And I can sit with it alone.
No, a burrow is not escape—
It’s the memory of being whole.
"Ho is you, ok?"
The dark still wants to know.
To the tender place, to the old terrain,
To the hush that holds my soul.
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