The Daily Verse

Somewhere between the ash and the arising,

a quiet miracle keeps choosing to begin —

the seed that trusts the dark enough to open,

the dawn that trusts the night to let it in.

 

I have learned that joy is not the absence

of everything that ever asked me to break,

but the tender, stubborn art of gathering

gold from the very hands that learned to shake.

 

Every wound I wore became a window.

Every silence taught my voice to sing.

Even the winter, bare and unforgiving,

was only earth rehearsing how to spring.

 

I am made of every sunrise I doubted

would find its way across my closing eyes,

and still it came — soft, certain, unrelenting —

proof that even breaking hearts can rise.

 

So I hold this life like light through amber,

each scar a story polished into art,

and I keep becoming, keep believing

that grace was always growing in my heart.

 

We are not the pain that tried to hold us.

We are the bloom that pain could not erase —

a universe of small and radiant courage

learning, always, how to love this place.