Welcome wanderer! The meadow’s gate stands slightly open... If you’re ready to dream, then welcome in.

 Ah, who am I?
A riddle as old as humankind, 

whispered in every age, 

through every time.

You wish for truth in brief reply?
That is tricky, I won’t lie.

Let the tale branch out and sway,
find its gentle, winding way;
let the breeze align each letter,
stringing music, light as feather.

When the hour softly climbs,
we may find the clue in rhymes,
following another sign.

In time, perhaps we’ll find the clue,
following another riddle’s hue.

Through whispered paths, we might recall
the oldest question of them all.

🕯️ And My Name

More than one,
that much is clear.

Some call me the Meadow Wanderer,
some the Dream-wanderer,
a Merry Idler.

And sometimes,
while I walk forgotten ways,
I hear my name in the wind’s soft maze,
the path-finder tracing wildflowers’ gaze.

And I know,
I was not first to bear those names,
nor will I be the last.

Yet if they bloom again
in passing tales,
I’ll carry them
with quiet grace.

For each step I take
stirs the sleeping songs
beneath the path.

And the night remembers my name
in the hush of a gentle breeze. 🕯️

🌙 A Humble Thought

Neither wholly lost
nor entirely found am I.

One part belongs to this world,
the other drifts in dreams.

One hand reaches upward,
touching clouds above.
The other sinks to the earth’s heart,
finding secrets in ancient roots.

At times I wander
for no reason at all,
simply because my heart
bids me to the call.

I hum my song
to the meadows,
to the hearts of trees.

Softly I scatter it
to drifting clouds,
to sleeping mountains’ dreams.

Perhaps a trace of me
will linger on these lands,
or vanish like a footprint
swept from sands.

For I am not endless after all.
Perhaps a merry idler truly am I,
and that alone is reason why.

🌿 The Paths I’ve Wandered

I walk the roads
no map recalls,
through day and night.

Through secret trails
veiled in the mist of time.

Where wildflowers whisper
ancient tales,
and shadows speak softly
with dreams in hidden vales.

Sometimes I wander
deep within the woods,
and rest where springs
sing cool and sweet.

With every step I take,
a sleeping song awakes.
Beyond the misty hills
its echo softly shakes.

The wild’s old magic
from forgotten years
drifts upon the wind,
and whispers in my ears.

Every hollow
keeps a sealed secret.
Every leaf shelters
a silent trace.

Each forgotten corner
cradles a tale once told,
then softened with age.

Ancient olive trees
keep secrets old and deep,
majestic oaks
their whispered legends sweep.

Some hide within
the morning mist,
perhaps awaiting to be found.
Some fade
in the shadows of the night,
and never again return to sight.

Dawn’s Secret

Let a new tale begin
with the first light of day.

The meadows awaken,
wrapped in silver-gray.

A white mist drifts,
soft and wide,
where fairies have danced
through the night’s quiet tide.

Their footprints linger
on blossoms fair,
hidden in dewdrops
glimmering there.

But as the sun ascends and glows,
the secrets, the stories,
the dreams it knows,
fade with the morning’s tender rays.
One must rise early
to catch their trace.

From Dawn to Noon

The mist withdraws
so quietly,
as dawn’s soft whispers
mingle in the air.

And day begins
in its own rhythm.

Midday Light

While the sun drifts slowly
through the sky,
its rays weave gently
through the leaves.

Shadows dance,
breezes play.
Upon the forest floor,
hidden patterns sway.

For those who listen,
they tell their tales.

I wait for the golden hours
as evening softly sails.

I trace their glimmer,
sometimes upon a wildflower’s crown,
sometimes on a leaf
where a dragonfly rests,
its golden wings
catching the light.

I try to still time
through my camera’s eye,
holding breath,
silent, still,
beneath the fading sky.

Night Meadow

At night, the meadows
wear different face.

Within the hush,
a distant growl takes place.

And know, my friend,
the sounds I hear at night
are no dream,
nor fairy tale.

They are real
as the break of day,
never erased,
never fading away. 😄

Sometimes a fox
glides through the meadow’s dark,
its tail flickers briefly,
then vanishes, swift and stark.

Try to catch it,
quick as flame,
it always hurries,
never the same.

Sometimes a thirsty hedgehog
stirs from sleep,
trudging softly
through the deep.

Then too it vanishes
into the velvet night,
its traces lost
to fading light.

If the moon is shy,
I do not step
into the valley.

I walk along its edge,
preserving knowingly
the harmony of dark.

For the night belongs to them,
and I am but a shadow,
a traveler gliding
beneath the silver light.

Sometimes I sit
upon a roadside stone,
photograph the stars,
and drift into dreams alone.

Call it idling if you will.
That is when I ask myself,

Who are we?
Why are we here?
What lies beyond
the Milky Way’s frontier?

I do not fear to ask,
nor tire of seeking.
It is not the answer,
but courage speaking,
that keeps the light alive,
tenderly gleaming
through endless night.

🍂 What I Gather

Which tales do I collect,
which tiny gleams?

Which dreams,
which whispered secrets
do I keep close to me?

Of course, the ones
I find along my wanderings.

Odd treasures,
and the odder stories
they disclose.

Silent wonders,

 where quiet magic flows.

Sometimes a thorny bush
will speak to me.
Sometimes a bird
will sing in its own melody.

And sometimes the wind
carries dreams of every kind,
weaving them gently
into words that bind.

I touch them softly,
let them play.
Perhaps a tale or poem
will bloom one day.

Sometimes I find
a stone, cold and blue.
They say long ago,
upon the peak Black Mountain,
a dragon once flew.

Its fire sank deep
in the earth below,
its ashes became
these stones we know.

Now it lies silent,
not forgotten, only still.
Perhaps awaiting
its own tale’s will.

🍃 What’s in My Satchel

My satchel is spacious,
yet if my finds won’t fit,
I slip them into my pockets,
bit by bit.

Lavender-scented olive-oil soaps,
a witch’s brew,
the recipe my own.

A handful of clay,
stone, and soil,
for natural dyes I hone.

A twig with an acorn,
the song of the future’s tone.

And sometimes from my pocket
slips a faded olive leaf,
a keepsake from harvests past,
still holding memories sweet.

Sometimes a feather
drifts from the sky,
black and white,
speckled, shy.

From far away
comes a steady beat,
tap after tap;
a woodpecker’s feat.

Busy building its nest
in the trunk of an old oak tree,
or high in the arms
of a tall eucalyptus, free.

Never startled, never weary,
steady and cheery,
in nature’s way,
so true and clear.

And sometimes, softly,
an acorn will sprout,
appearing in silence,
by a tree’s root, no doubt.

But why, you ask?
I always do, you see.

The playful squirrels,
the clever jays,
hide their treasures
in earthy maze.

A winter’s store,
a careful plan,
yet some forgotten;
as wild things can.

And those forgotten seeds
sink deep into the ground,
not meant for winter’s hush,
but for spring’s bright sound.

Days grow short,
seasons turn.
Rain falls gently,
and whispers to the earth,
“The time has come,”
so soft, so sure.

And there, in the stillness,
a little oak awakens pure. 🌱

🌊 Setting Sail for New Tales

At times I set my sails
toward stories new.

The south wind brings
driftwood, gray and old.

Time, salt, and waves,
old craftsmen all,
they’ve shaped the stones
and carved their call.

From such a stone
I sometimes find
a circle worn
and thinned by time,
a hollow ring
that opens gates
to realms unseen
beyond the brine.

I lift it high
and gaze across the sea.
It whispers spells
of memory.

Perhaps a fairy, 

or a silver-haired mermaid, 

sings to me

And for a breath,
within my eyes,
there gleams
the shadow of a lost king,
enthroned
in ocean dreams.

And on the shore
what lingers in hand:
shells, seaweed,
delicate strands.

Each a riddle,
a trace, a tale,
soft fragments
the waves set sail.

I gather them all,
the stories they whisper,
and with the ocean’s lullaby,
they fill my pages gently,
like a dream,
in tender harmony.

Did Someone Say “Map”?

All right, all right.
Let no feet get lost,
let no steps go astray.

Here’s your map
to guide the way.

But no,
let’s not call it a map.
Perhaps only a compass.

It points not north,
but softly teaches us
to slow our pace.

Here, paths open
not with lines,
but with tales.

Each corner hides a secret,
each page shelters a dream.

You may step into the Shop,
or linger in the Atelier,
or pause for a Second Breakfast.

To see all doors,
all paths at once,
step through the home page.

There the site map will unfold,
and more beyond. ✨

Or if you wish,
stay here a little longer,
and listen once more
to the meadow’s tale.

🕯️ Closing

And if one day
you return to these lands,
the meadow’s gate waits ajar.

For footsteps delayed,
for travelers wrapped
in the night’s embrace,
for those who return,
for other tales,
for wanderers yet to stray.

The fire’s flame glows on,
quietly burning still.

The kettle hums
its final tune,
melting softly
into the night.

And perhaps you’ll find me there,
beneath a lamp’s dim, gentle glare.

A cup of tea
warming in my hand,
an open notebook
on my stand,
quietly writing the book 

I’ve longed to read.

❓️ The Final Riddle

If you truly wish
to know my name,
then listen closely.

In the forest’s depths
a hidden spring lies.

Beneath the oak
it softly sings.

Secrets only
quiet hearts may hear,
it whispers gently,
along with its name.

Ah, the simplest riddle of all,
woven with a little mystery,
and a little song of words.

If you’ve found the answer,
write it down
and say hello to me.

And if you like,
you may ask me, too,
a riddle in return. 🍃

Namárië...
Until we meet again
beneath starlit skies.