Forgiveness
It begins quietly, like leaves stirring
under the breath of an approaching tide.
Not an event, but a slow erosion,
the way rivers pull mountains to the sea.
It seeps in with small gestures—
hands unclasped, rooms left empty,
footsteps retraced as if they might find
what was once misplaced.
We imagine it loudly, the shattering of glass,
or suddenly there—the vacuum of a lightning split.
But forgiveness is kindness wrapped in shadows,
asking only that we let go of our own storm within.
It is the earth shifting beneath us,
subtle, yet everything leans, and so we learn
to balance differently, to steady ourselves
on more welcome ground.
One day we wake to see
the imperfection of old mirrors,
a dullness where once there were bright lines,
and we realize we have worn our hearts thinly.
It brings change in the ways that matter,
like water smoothes stone,
we become more like the sea,
reclaiming what we hardened,
washing clean what we adorned in darkness.