Poem 023

There is a garden underneath the stone,

Where seeds lie dreaming, patient and alone,

No summer hand can reach that buried place,

No golden hour can hurry what must face.


The roots grow deep through seasons stripped and bare,

And learn to flourish in the thinner air,

Until the darkness, once a place of fear,

Becomes the hour when everything draws near.


A fragile wonder opens without sound,

Its pale existence touching frozen ground,

And though the warmth will call it soon away,

It proves that life can choose its own display.


The beauty of poetry lies in its ability to be open to multiple meanings. Keep your thoughts to yourself or share them here - I'd love to hear how this poem resonates with you.

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Poem 027

A girl chased a lantern that floated ahead,

Through forests of whispers where moonlight was spread,

She thought if she caught it, she'd finally know,

The place she was meant to arrive at and go,

So onward she followed wherever it led.


But dawn came too quickly and dimmed its bright flame,

The lantern grew distant and altered its name,

She stood in the clearing with nothing to chase,

Then saw golden sunlight spill over the place,

And realized she had arrived just the same.


The journey had given her more than the light,

It taught her to walk through the depths of the night,

She no longer needed one beacon to guide,

For she carried a spark that was burning inside,

And followed its glow toward the morning's wide sight.


The beauty of poetry lies in its ability to be open to multiple meanings. Keep your thoughts to yourself or share them here - I'd love to hear how this poem resonates with you.

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Poem 025

A frozen window catches threads of white,

Drawn by an unseen hand throughout the night,

Each branch appears, then slowly disappears,

A fleeting kingdom made of frozen tears,

Too delicate to last for many years.


No seed was buried underneath the floor,

No careful gardener opened up a door,

Yet beauty found a place to take its form,

And held its ground against the winter storm,

As though the cold itself could keep it warm.


Perhaps the things we hide are made this way,

They need the quiet shelter of the gray,

They gather strength beyond the public eye,

And only bloom when noise has passed us by,

Then fade before the world can ask us why.


The beauty of poetry lies in its ability to be open to multiple meanings. Keep your thoughts to yourself or share them here - I'd love to hear how this poem resonates with you.

Read more