by Liam

In springtime, my words too will blossom

not perfectly in a slick dialogue,

but in the humble whisper

of something just born.

Long dormant beneath the syllables of silence,

nestled in the earth of what I did not yet know how to express.

Yes, the spring comes quickly.

Light illuminates the soil of the spirit,

and what once was buried

germinates with understanding.

These words are not summoned, but consciously arrive

as petals burst open toward a seeking sun,

drinking from the mystery that makes all things grow.

This harvest is not to explain,

but to reveal.

Not to answer,

but to bless.

May words find you too,

the way wildflowers find cracks on the pilgrim’s path,

unexpected, tender, and beautiful.

Not forged in certainty, but in wonder,

lingering like dew along the edge of your morning sojourn.