It is the hush before the thunder speaks,
the still hand that does not reach to take.
It is the spine of light, threading through the dark
without asking for applause.
A root that sings beneath the earth,
never asking the flower to say thank you.
It waits like rivers do, not for permission,
but for purpose.
It is fire, but not the kind that burns,
a warmth that refuses to vanish
even when the weather is fierce.
A shelter without walls,
a sword that refuses to kill.
It is the mirror that shatters pride
and shows you your neighbor’s face instead.
The voice that speaks, not in thunder,
but in whispering bread.
It is the color behind the colors,
the silence between every holy word,
the falling of self, so another may rise.
Time cannot bruise it, loss cannot bury it.
Tongues forget it, but it remembers all things.
It is the last breath held, at the edge of the world
and the first breath, after resurrection.
©blissful_
B