The Way That I Care

I don’t love like thunder.

I love like loam—rich with what’s been broken down,

gentle with what’s growing.

I care like a cedar leans toward light,

even when clouds linger long overhead.

I am not the wildfire;

I am the slow drip of mountain snow in spring,

melting without fanfare,

but giving life just the same.

I check in like the moon checks the tide,

without question,

without needing applause—

just the rhythm of showing up

because the pull is real.

I care in the way wildflowers return

year after year,

uncertain if they’re wanted,

but blooming anyway

in the hope that someone

will notice the color they bring.

I don’t press into your space like wind through an open door—

I settle like fog in the lowlands,

soft and barely spoken,

but always there

if you look closely.

I love like tree roots stretch beneath stone—

never asking the boulder to move,

just learning to grow around it

because stillness doesn’t scare me.

I’ve sat with my own shadows

long enough to know how to wait

without breaking.

And when silence grows thick

like moss in deep woods,

I don’t mistake it for distance—

I hear the hush of something sacred

still learning its shape.

So if you never reach back,

know this:

I was always the stream

that curved gently around your quiet,

the sparrow that sang anyway,

the earth that held space

whether or not you ever called it home.

Because I don’t love to be noticed.

I love because it’s my nature.