The Whimsical Dear Ones (Draft 1)

O small ones with starlit bones,
You come not roaring but rustling—
with fur damp from dew,
eyes vast as the unspoken ache in men’s hearts,
and breath like lullabies learned before language.

I see you,
twilight-stitched and tender-footed,
bearing no answers—only presence,
and that, O god-breathed watchers,
is more than enough.