I did not know
the earth remembered me—
that it bore the imprint of my faltering
and offered stillness
in place of shame.
Yet when I fell,
it did not withdraw.
It remained—
quiet, steadfast,
untouched by my forgetting.

I never summoned mercy.
No litany left my tongue.
And still it came—
not with thunder,
but in the measured breath
that returned to me
as if it had never left.
As if it too
refused to let go.

There are graces
that move beneath language—
mercies that ask for nothing,
but find us nonetheless.
They do not need belief
to be what they are.
They arrive
because they are already here.

Perhaps this is the holiest thing:
not the asking,
but the being—
not the reaching,
but the quiet resting
in something vast
and radiant
and endlessly kind.

And so I lie still—
not in certainty,
but in trust.
Not because I am faithful,
but because I am known.
Not because I prayed,
but because I was already
held.

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