Born of the Same Dust

There is something the earth understands

that we have spent lifetimes

trying to learn,

🪶

that beauty moves at its own pace,

that the most enduring things

grow slowly,

in the dark and the stillness.

🪶

The mountains were not made in a day.

They rose through tremendous pressure,

through forces grinding against one another

across centuries of silence,

slowly becoming

something magnificent

and immovable.

🪶

A robin simply opens her beak to the dawn

and pours herself into it completely,

as though singing were the most natural thing,

because for her,

it is.

🪶

The hawk seeks nothing of the sky

and the sky gives everything,

and the wildflowers do not strive

to be more than they are,

yet there is nothing more lovely

on this good earth.

🪶

We forget, sometimes,

that we too are made of this earth,

the same matter, the same longing,

reaching always toward the light.

🪶

That we too are allowed

to grow at our own pace,

to move toward what sustains us,

to trust the seasons of our own becoming

the way the earth trusts

the returning warmth of the sun,

completely,

and without a single moment of doubt.