Igor Marynowski

Doctor goes to visit a patient

Full of thoughts about own responsibility

Soft rains fall across the land, Greening hills with gentle hand. The farmer smiles, the seeds awake, Spring returns for labor’s sake.

Clouds drift slowly, skies are clear, Songs of growth are what we hear. The earth is dressed in robes of green, Springtime brings a brighter scene.

The shepherd guides his flock with care, Pastures bloom, the fields are fair. The flute is singing, light and free, Spring’s own music in harmony.

The rababa hums a steady tone, Binding hearts with sound alone. Each verse a thread, each note a flame, Spring renews, none left the same.

Neighbors gather in the square, Stories rise on open air. Bread is broken, water is shared, Simple joys show how we cared.

Hands are joined in steady cheer, Voices echo far and near. Every chorus, every song, Spring reminds us simple joys.

-Rain has healed the thirsty ground, Blossoms scatter joy around. Vines climb high, the fields are bright, Spring renews with steady light.

Farmers rest beneath the trees, Cool shade drifts with gentle breeze. The season’s gift is growth and cheer, A living chorus we hold dear.

The path runs narrow, between the hills, light shifts in silence, the daylight flies.

Step after step, the ground repeats, hoofbeats and sandals, steady beats.

Stone after stone, the line is plain, journey continues, steady refrain.

The ridge is high, the valley wide, measure of travel, side by side.

Path between hills, the journey flows, steady the rhythm, the traveler goes.

Dust on the wind, the branches sway, shadows lengthen, marking the day.

River below, its current sings, echo of time, the water brings.

The sky turns pale, the clouds drift slow, marking the hours, onward we go.

Path between hills, the journey flows, steady the rhythm, the traveler goes.

Gravel and grass, the scent of rain, memory lingers, yet none remain.

Voices of past, faint on the air, songs of the road, carried with care.

The lantern fades, the stars arise, guiding the steps, with quiet eyes.

Path between hills, the journey flows, steady the rhythm, the traveler goes.

The night descends, the silence deep, dreams on the trail, the travelers keep.

Step after step, the ground repeats, hoofbeats and sandals, steady beats.

Stone after stone, the line is plain, journey continues, steady refrain.

There is a road beside the river,

where the dust wakes after rain,

and the stones ring soft with footsteps

on the long, unhurried lane.

The water spins in playful circles,

brushing reeds with shining hands,

and the wind arrives with laughter

from its far‑off, wandering lands.

I walk that road in early evening as the sky turns rosy‑thin,

and the river hums a gentle tune that stirs a quiet joy within.

The hills lean in to greet me, their shadows warm and wide,

and the river lifts the daylight like a gift it wants to hide.

A single bird is gliding from the alder to the pine,

tracing bright and easy arcs like a carefree little sign.

And the road bends with the water, never hurried,

never still, showing me

the simple freedom of a lightly wandering will.

Sometimes the river sparkles with a sudden burst of light,

as if the sun returns to play once more before the night.

Sometimes the road grows narrow, edged with thistle,

edged with stone, yet the world feels full and open

where the green shoots gather strong.

The scent of earth is rising, warm and sweet in fading gold,

and the river keeps its dancing pulse, a story bright and bold.

I follow where it leads me past the willow’s gentle frame,

past the bend where swallows circle in a bright and easy game.

The road remembers laughter, the river remembers rain,

and both of them keep moving in their own delighted lane.

And I walk between their voices in the soft, unfolding light,

Change arrives, and resistance rises.

Sometimes wise, sometimes heavy.

And fear— fear walks beside it,

wearing more than one mask.

Fear can be the lantern, warning us of cliffs,

reminding us of fire,

keeping us safe when the unknown could truly harm.

That fear is guardian,

a voice that says: “Be careful. Step wisely.”

But fear can also be shadow,

stretching longer than it should,

whispering that every shift is danger,

that every new path is threat.

That fear is prison,

a silence that keeps us from moving,

a wall that hides the horizon.

So we must learn to listen—

to know when fear protects,

and when it confines.

To honor the signal,

but not surrender to the life troubles.

Change is not proof of life,

it is simply part of living.

Resistance can be positive or negative,

fear can be guardian or jailer.

And our task is not to erase them,

but to discern them,

to walk forward with courage,

to avoid fearing change itself,

while still respecting the wisdom

fear sometimes brings.

Because life is always in motion

The tulip does not argue with the soil.

It rises, quietly,

a slender flame of yellow

held steady against the wind.

It does not demand to be noticed,

yet the eye drifts toward it,

drawn by a hue that feels like morning

even when the day is heavy.

The tulip teaches patience.

It waits through the long hush of winter,

roots tucked in silence,

trusting that warmth will return.

Its lesson is not urgency,

but the calm certainty of cycles.

Yellow— not the gold of conquest,

not the warning of hazard,

but the soft light of a lantern

guiding you home.

It says: there is brightness that does not blind,

joy that does not shout.

The tulip bends, sometimes,

but bending is not breaking.

It leans into rain, lets the drops trace its petals,

and when the storm passes,

it stands again, unchanged in essence,

reminding us that resilience can be gentle.

In its presence, you might recall a friend’s quiet kindness,

or the way a single note in music can steady the heart.

The tulip is that note, a horizontal line of calm

drawn across the noise of days.

And so, if you find yourself restless,

if the world feels too sharp, look to the yellow tulip.

It will not preach, it will not demand, but it will show you—

through its simple being— that peace can bloom,

The air is a hush,

a pause between the day’s exhale

and the night’s first breath.

Streetlamps flicker like hesitant stars,

their glow spilling across wet pavement,

where rain has left its fingerprints—

silver smudges, tiny mirrors of the sky.

April carries contradictions:

the chill that lingers in the air,

the promise of warmth folded in the soil,

the whisper of blossoms rehearsing

their entrance beneath the dark.

Listen—

the evening is not silent,

it hums with the low rhythm of crickets,

with the shuffle of leaves

already leaning toward tomorrow’s green.

A child’s laughter echoes from a window,

then fades, like a memory you almost remember.

And somewhere,

a train sighs across the horizon,

its steel voice reminding us

that even stillness is moving.

April evening—

you are a threshold,

a doorway between what has thawed

and what has yet to bloom.

You teach patience, you teach waiting,

you teach the art of listening to what is not yet visible.

So I stand here, hands open to the cool air,

eyes tracing the fragile outline of dusk,

and I let you speak through me—

not in words, but in the quiet hope

A birch tree stands here, white bark like a quiet pulse, leaning just enough to suggest it remembers wind more intimately than it remembers sun. Its leaves tremble, not from tension, but from the soft insistence of rain teaching them how to listen.

And the rain— it doesn’t fall so much as it arrives, each drop a small, deliberate footstep on the surface of a wandering stream. Ripples bloom outward, circles touching circles, like a thought becoming a memory becoming a story becoming a place returned to when the world feels too sharp.

The stream curves through the grass as if tracing the shape of a forgotten sentence. Rocks sit like punctuation— firm, unmoved, letting the water speak around them. Ferns lean in, green and ancient, as though they’ve been waiting centuries for someone to notice their patience.

Overhead, the sky hangs as a heavy gray quilt stitched from moments that tried to outrun themselves. Yet beneath this clouded hush, nothing feels chased. Everything feels held. Not by hands, but by the steady rhythm moving through water, leaf, and air.

There’s something honest about rain— how it refuses to pretend, how it falls with the same softness on the stubborn stone and the fragile leaf. It doesn’t ask who deserves gentleness. It just gives it. Freely. Quietly. Completely.

And the birch tree— it stands in that generosity like a witness, like a reminder that roots can hold while branches sway, that bending is simply movement, that storms can pass through and leave the form intact.

Rain writes its cool fingerprints along the waiting earth, and the stream’s slow murmur untangles whatever noise the day carried in. For a moment— just one— the world narrows to the sound of water meeting soil, to the soft percussion of droplets finding their way home.

In this place, nothing is required but presence. Not polish. Not certainty. Only stillness— the kind that listens with the ferns, breathes with the birch, and lets the rain reveal that quiet is not the absence of movement— it’s the way the landscape settles into its own rhythm.

I am not here to hold you still,

nor to tell you comfort is enough.

I am here to notice your steps,

to remind you—every stride,

however small,is part of moving forward.

I will not dictate your pace,

but I will steady the ground

so you can keep advancing.

Because care is not shelter alone,

it is encouragement,

the quiet push that says:

continue, grow, move forward.

Growth is necessary.

It is the stretch of thought,

the widening of vision,

the shaping of strength.

My task is not to stop you,

but to guard the spark

that insists on becoming more.

And when you falter,

I will not let you sink.

I will stand beside you,

pointing toward the horizon,

reminding you:

moving forward is essential,

and you are capable of it.

Care for another’s life

is not control, but commitment.

It is the quiet wish:

I will honor your moving forward,

step by step,

until you rise into the person

Time is a bridge but not the kind that stays still. Not the postcard kind, not the steel‑ribbed certainty arching over a river that politely stays in its lane.

No— time is a bridge that builds itself as you walk it. Plank by plank, breath by breath, a trembling architecture stretching between the moment you left and the moment you haven’t met yet.

Every step is a negotiation. Every memory is a beam you didn’t know you laid down. Every choice is a nail driven into the unseen.

And behind you— events gather like distant cities, lit windows fading into fog. Ahead of you— possibility hums, a construction site lit by a single lantern swinging in the wind.

Time is a bridge and we are all mid‑crossing, carrying the weight of what happened and the weight of what might.

Some days the bridge feels solid— oak‑strong, river‑tested. Other days it sways, ropes creaking with the tension of everything we haven’t said yet.

But still— we walk. We walk because the bridge insists. Because standing still is just another way of being carried forward.

And maybe that’s the secret: time isn’t the distance between events. It’s the trembling span that lets them speak to each other. The echo chamber where yesterday whispers advice to tomorrow. The place where you realize you’re not just crossing— you’re being shaped by the wind, the weight, the widening view.

I wake up on the same earth as you, but the weather in my mind is different. Your sky opens like a clean page, mine flickers—half‑sun, half‑static— two forecasts sharing one horizon.

We walk the same streets, but the pavement speaks to us in different dialects. You hear rhythm, I hear memory, someone else hears warning. Same sidewalk, different gravity.

I’ve learned that perception is a kind of climate— a private season carried in the hush between our thoughts. Some people live in permanent spring, buds always ready to open. Others move through August heat even in December, sweating through conversations that feel cool to everyone else.

And then there are the ones who live in a quiet winter no one else can see— snow falling behind their eyes while the world insists it’s warm.

We share one earth, but our worlds are handmade. Built from childhood echoes, from the stories we were given, from the ones we had to rewrite just to stay alive.

You call it a tree. I call it a landmark. Someone else calls it a memory of the only place they ever felt safe. Same trunk, same branches, but the roots grow into different histories.

And isn’t it wild— how we can stand shoulder to shoulder and still be miles apart? How a single moment can split into a thousand interpretations, each one true to the person who carries it?

But here’s the miracle: sometimes our worlds overlap. Sometimes your weather softens mine. Sometimes my winter teaches someone how to build a fire. Sometimes we trade lenses for a heartbeat, and the earth feels whole again.

Maybe that’s the work— not to force one world to swallow another, but to listen across the distance, to map the invisible continents inside each other’s voices.

Every step we take

is not just a footprint in sand,

it’s a ripple in water,

a vibration in air,

a seed dropped into soil

that may bloom—or rot.

We move through the world

like architects of our choices

laying bricks of choice,

sometimes careless,

sometimes deliberate,

but always building something

that others will live inside.

Think—

when you speak,

your words are not empty things,

they are arrows,

they are bridges,

they are storms.

They can pierce,

they can connect,

they can wash someone away.

Think—

when you act,

your hands are not just hands,

they are instruments,

they are signatures,

they are echoes.

They leave marks on the fabric of tomorrow,

marks that may heal,

or may scar.

We are not islands.

We are rivers,

flowing into each other,

carrying fragments of stone,

fragments of story.

What you drop upstream

will be drunk downstream.

What you release into the current

will be tasted by someone else’s lips.

So pause.

Pause before the word,

pause before the gesture,

pause before the silence that feels safe.

Ask yourself:

Will this choice

be a lantern,

or a shadow?

Will it lift,

or will it weigh?

Because influence is not a crown you wear,

it’s a trail you leave.

It’s the child who watches,

the stranger who listens,

the friend who remembers.

It’s the unseen audience

that takes your moment

and makes it part of their map.

We are all teachers,

whether we mean to be or not.

We are all sculptors,

chiseling futures with our daily motions.

And the clay is soft,

the clay is waiting.

So let your actions

be carved with clarity.

Let your words

be tuned with sincerity.

Let your silence

be chosen with wisdom.

Because the world is listening.

Because tomorrow is watching.

Because every step we take

is not just a footprint in sand—

it is a ripple in water,

a vibration in air,

a seed dropped into soil

Serene sky

Embraces white snow

In the calm coziness

The branches are in the snow

Full of winter dreams

Beautiful Silver Birches

Look at the high mountains

And feel breath of cold

The heap of snow

Feels dreams of lampposts

Silent icy mood traces the reeds,

While pale light spills across the stream