Where the Quiet Waits

 There was a day when I might have rushed in,

like spring breaking into frozen ground—

eager to bloom,

to offer something bright in your arms

when your skies had no color.

But I have learned the language of storms.

Not the ones that shout through the trees,

but the quieter ones,

the ones that linger behind your eyes

even after the world has gone still.

I saw the weight you carried—

not in your hands,

but in the way you moved through your hours

like dusk dragging its shadowed hem across a flooded field.

And I remembered:

some burdens are not meant to be shared,

not yet.

So I became a reed at the river’s edge.

Not pulling, not swaying too loud,

just listening.

Because I know

what it means

to be touched when your skin aches,

to be asked when all you want

is to float unnoticed

in the silence after noise.

And in that knowing,

I chose the quiet path.

You would not see me follow,

but you might feel the earth stay warm beneath your feet.

You might taste calm in the air

where the cedar hums low

and the moon does not ask anything of you.

Even when your day has ended—

when the keys are down,

the door is closed,

and the world pretends to sleep—

I know that chaos can crawl home with you,

mud on its boots,

tracking through every quiet thought.

So I do not knock.

Instead,

I wrap my presence in stillness,

tuck it beneath the threshold

like wild sage in old stories—

not to cleanse,

but to say, you’re not alone,

even when you need to be.

There is a trail only you can walk.

I will not map it,

will not light every stone.

But I will leave a candle

on the windowsill of my silence,

just enough glow

so you know

that care does not always come with sound.

Sometimes,

it waits

where the quiet lives,

where love does not demand

to be heard—

only understood.