Holding Still

 I have reached with open hands

into storms that never called me by name,

only to gather the hush of unanswered winds.

It is not weakness to offer warmth

where the cold has built its home.

It is not folly to speak gently

into spaces that echo back nothing.

I am not made lesser by silence.

I am made of rivers that do not demand to be followed—

only witnessed,

only felt

as they carve canyons through time.

I have sat with my breath,

slow and steady,

while the world spun loud.

And I have learned

that stillness does not mean waiting—

it means becoming.

If I reach again, it will be with roots beneath me,

not longing.

If I speak again, it will be with fire and calm—

not ache.

And if no reply comes,

then I will bless the air

for giving me back to myself.

Let silence stretch.

Let distance grow.

I remain whole.

And that

is enough.