The Ides of May

Video, Audio/Video Editing by JJ
Process: ChatGPT (poem, song prompt, thumbnail image), Riffusion.com (song), Audacity 3.7.1, Photopea 5.6, Kdenlive 25.04.1, Ubuntu 24.10 (Oracular Oriole, Linux)

The light comes slowly on the prairie’s edge,
a hush before the tremble of the grass,
as dawn unseals the silence from the east.
No herald sounds; the world begins again—
the sky, immense and empty of regret,
stretches its limbs and draws a breath of blue.

A single hawk carves circles in the air,
its wings like prayers upon the wind’s soft back.
Beneath, the plains exhale their greening sighs;
the frost has fled, and root and stem awake.
The earth, now warm with memory of sun,
unwraps the hush of winter from its bones.

This is the hour of promise, not of proof.
Each branch holds nothing—yet holds everything—
a whisper of the blossom not yet born.
The sun, still low, ignites the open land
not with a blaze, but slow and certain fire,
its gold a quiet urging to begin.

The Ides of May—no omen here of death,
but resurrection clothed in prairie light,
where time is not a tyrant but a guest
that passes through, unmeasured, unafraid.
Each blade of grass extends into the sky
as if to say: the limits are a lie.