The Dream That Holds Its Place

 It does not visit

to be questioned.

It does not ask for meaning

because it already knows

where it belongs.

This dream --

it sits quiet,

like dew on morning stone.

It doesn't speak in riddles.

It simply remains.

No voice called it forward.

No sign summoned it.

It was given

in the same way wind moves grass

without ceremony,

without need for applause.

It arrived,

clear as the shape of light

through cedar branches,

soft as the hush

before the first snow falls.

And I know..

not from stars,

not from searching,

but from the deep

and ancient steadiness

that has guided every true step:

this will be.

Not because I deserve it.

Not because I wanted it.

But because it is.

So I carry it,

not as hope,

but as seed.

Watered not by want

but by work.

By the daily growing

of self-restraint,

of clarity,

of trust in what’s right.

The world may call it chance.

Others may call it nothing.

But I know better.

Because the garden grows

even when no one is watching.

And the fire stays lit

even if only embers glow.

I do not touch this dream

too often.

Only enough

to remember it has not faded.

And when the sky

colors itself in the same hue

that once framed its form,

I feel its presence again.

Not alluring

but truth.

I don’t follow signs.

I follow peace.

And the peace I have

when I think of this dream

tells me:

when it is time,

I will not have to chase it.

I will only have to open

what I’ve been quietly preparing

all this time.