The Mountain Moves in You [a poem]
You entreated the mountain to yieldβ
to unfurl its edges,
to cleave a gentler way.
But the stone held firm,
aloof in its stillness.
Yet you climbed.
Continue reading “The Mountain Moves in You [a poem]”
You entreated the mountain to yieldβ
to unfurl its edges,
to cleave a gentler way.
But the stone held firm,
aloof in its stillness.
Yet you climbed.
Continue reading “The Mountain Moves in You [a poem]”
You were never asked to be unyieldingβ
never summoned to rise without faltering,
nor to walk unshaken across uncertain ground.
Only to breatheβ
gently, if unevenlyβ
when breath felt more like a burden than a gift.
Only to place one foot before the other,
not with assurance,
but with the quiet resolve
of one who continues
simply because they must.
When the sky folds inward,
heavy with hush,
and your own reflection falters
beneath the dimming of its lightβ
when the remnants of yesterday
cling to the hollows of breath
like smoke in still airβ
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 becomingβstill.
You are wrought of oceansβ
not of mere water,
but of the hush between waves,
of tides that rise to the call of unseen stars.
Within you, the salt of memory lingersβ
not sorrow, but the sacred trace of becoming,
gathered grain by grain
in the cathedral of your silence.
Still, you shine.
Even in eclipse,
your depths cradle light
the way night cradles the moon.