The Trees Mark Where I Am

I sent a soft wind,

a quiet reaching—

not loud,

not needing much.

Just a gentle line

threaded with care.

What came back

was colder air.

Not cruel,

but no longer warm.

Not closing the door,

but not opening it either.

I felt the shift—

like the hush before rain,

like the pause birds make

when they sense a shadow overhead.

It wasn’t what was said.

It was what wasn’t.

And still,

I stayed standing.

Because I have been here before—

at the edge of someone’s fading.

And I know now

that presence cannot be asked for.

It is either given freely,

or it’s a shell with no flame.

I do not chase

what steps away slowly.

I do not beg

for space in lives

that cannot hold mine.

I am the kind

who listens to silence,

but not forever.

Who waits for echoes,

but does not build homes from them.

I walk with earth in my bones.

I do not stumble at every parting.

Because I remember

that even when others forget me,

I am not forgotten by the land,

the wind,

or the truths that raised me.

I send no anger.

Only stillness.

Only the deep knowing

that I deserve more

than being thought of

after the fact.

Let the wind carry me forward.

Let the trees mark where I’ve been.

Let the path keep widening—

for I do not stay

where I am only lightly held.