Cartography of The Unfounded

There is a place the maps forgot—

borderless, unclaimed,

its rivers running stubbornly

against the pull of the earth.

I have walked there in dreams,

following the scent of rain

before it falls,

and the hush that comes

just before a truth is spoken.

Your seasons are not like the rest—

summer grows cautious in your fields,

spring arrives through the cracks,

and winter…

winter wears your resilience like armor.

Even the storms here

are carved with a strange kindness,

teaching the soil to hold

what once broke it.

I have charted the constellations above you,

but they keep rearranging themselves,

as if unwilling to be owned.

And though the world

may never stumble across this country,

I keep returning—

carrying no compass,

only the knowledge

that I belong here,

in the quiet between your breath and your heartbeat,

where the earth itself

seems to pause 

and listen.

If you read it as “land,” “rivers,” and “seasons,” it’s about a mysterious country… but you’ll know the rivers are your persistence, the seasons are your changes, the storms are your past struggles, and the maps are the world underestimating you.