after the quiet


The storm recedes; the branches bow,

their broken prayers drip into earth.

A hush remains—no thunder now,

just soil that dreams of quiet birth.

The days roll on in muted gray,

each hour a stone along the lane;

yet still the heart learns not to fray,

for even stillness soothes the strain.

Hope does not blaze, but softly glows,

a lantern lit in twilight’s seam;

it steadies hands, it slowly grows,

the tender marrow of a dream.

         

                                          -Deia


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