You do not have to call it grace,
Nor point to every broken place.
There’s silence deep where waters flow,
And songs the bones still somehow know.

Leaf-shadow falls where salt winds sigh,
And wings are hushed before they fly.
Behind your ribs, a shape stays still—
It listens with a waiting will.

It longs not for a slammed-back door,
But quiet that’s not threat or war.
And then it sparks—the old regret,
A match to memories unmet.

A name was screamed, the walls pulled tight,
And learned to brace, to flee from fright.
The blow not struck still left its stain—
A flinch repeating like a chain.

The wind back then did not speak low—
It roared with all it could not show.
But let them come—those younger years,
With bare feet dusted, bright with tears.

Let them sit near where sunlight lies,
Where moss has caught the greenest skies.
No need to tell the stream its way—
It softens stone without delay.

The trees forget the names you wore,
But lean like light you can’t ignore.
What once you couldn’t bear to feel
Now hums beneath—alive and real.

A rhythm beats beneath your skin,
Beyond where shame has ever been.
No ears but yours were meant to hear
This thrum that says, “You’re safe. You're near.”

You do not have to strive for grace,
Or disappear to find your place.
Just listen close—your body knows
The song that staying softly grows.