Forgiveness does not arrive with thunder, nor does it seek to be seen.
It enters quietly, like mist upon a still lake at first light,
gathering in the hush where sorrow once settled,
softening the edges of what was once unyielding.
It does not contend with memory,
nor ask that pain be erased.
Instead, it moves beneath the surface of understanding,
loosening what has long been held,
and offering—without urgency—
a gentler way of remembering.
When the sky folds inward,
heavy with hush,
and your own reflection falters
beneath the dimming of its light—
when the remnants of yesterday
cling to the hollows of breath
like smoke in still air—
Be still.
Inhale not urgency,
but the quiet sanctity of grace.
Let the pause between heartbeats
speak what time cannot touch:
You are not behind.
You are not broken.
You are becoming—still.
There is a light
no night can extinguish—
a still, inviolate flame
woven into the hush
between your heartbeats.
It does not cry for witness.
It does not rise in thunder.
It simply remains—
soft as breath,
certain as sky.
I lay it down—
this weight I’ve carried in silence,
the hush of what was never spoken,
the tender burden tucked beneath the day.
I lay it down
as one might offer a thread of gold
to the edge of the sea—
not to cast away,
but to entrust.
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