Gratitude
The snap
The bowl sits between us, cool enamel chipped in places where time pressed too hard. The peas wait inside their green jackets, fat as little secrets. We snap them open one by one, thumbs working without needing to think. The rhythm starts to steady the morning. Pop. Slide. Drop. A soft music older than my memory, older than the porch itself. Mamaw’s hug lingers on my shirt, a blend of flour dust and the lavender she keeps on her dresser in a jar she never empties. The smell holds me in a way nothing else can, a reminder that love is not loud. It settles on you like warm rain and stays there long after the clouds drift on. Her hands move quicker than mine. They always have. Wrinkles folding like the hills beyond the soybean fields. She does not teach with words. Her lessons are tucked inside the work. Patience. Steadiness. The truth that small tasks keep the heart from unraveling. I watch her snap another pod. The peas scatter into the bowl like tiny green prayers. She smiles without looking up as if she can hear my thoughts, as if the porch boards whispered them to her through the soles of her slippers. The world beyond the yard feels wide today, wide enough to pull at me with its bright untamed edges. But here, the morning is slow and sure and filled with the smell of her hug woven into the air like a blessing. I wonder how long I can stay in this gentle place where time bends instead of breaks, where the work is soft and the love is certain. Mamaw nudges the bowl toward me. We still have rows to finish. I reach for another pod, feel the green split under my thumb, feel the quiet truth settle in my chest. Some traditions hold you close. Some open you just enough to let the future in.
By Taylor Ward11 months ago in Poets
HIS LOVE
All my relationships resulted in failure, Or was I the failure? All came, the beauty and the wise, none knew how to measure my personal desires nor to reflect back my love. The one I finally thought was the one for me turned my heart into a glass, a glass that made it impossible to be repaired. A sparrow disturbed my sleep like the rest of my problems that destroyed my peace, but it whispered words I could tell were not from it, words I could not avoid. At the edge of its conclusion it revealed the author, the sovereign God, love himself, the one who knew me before the existence of my generation, the one who filled every void. He then picked those broken confusing pieces until they made sense, confusion was no longer my portion nor hallucinations. Because he is a loving God, the one who shed his blood to wash my rust. A revelation stormed me, my relationships failed so I can be his, success failed so I could worship him, because he is a loving God.
By Uhone Matshele 11 months ago in Poets
