I carried my words
like river stones in my pocket
smoothed by years of touch,
never once let go.
Around me,
voices shifted with the weather,
bending themselves
to fit new skies.
But mine stayed,
anchored deep beneath my ribs,
where truth does not rust
and promises hum softly in the dark.
It wasn’t stubbornness
it was tending,
watering the same small seed
even as the garden
was torn up and planted over.
Some days
it felt like speaking
a language no one else remembered.
Yet under the hush,
my words stayed warm,
still breathing in my palm.
And when at last
I gave what I had promised,
I felt the weight lift
I was free to fly,
light as morning wind,
carried only
by the truth I had kept.
Category: Musings