Writers 
Roots Beneath the Restless Sky
I did not rise the way the eagle climbs,
in one bold arc against a waiting sun;
I rose the way a river learns its lines,
slow, patient, carving stone by stone, undone,
then built again by seasons passing through,
by rains that came uninvited, harsh, and cold,
by droughts that made me question what I knew,
and taught me lessons no one else had told.
There were nights the wind forgot my name,
when shadows pressed like hands upon my chest,
when every step I took felt lined with blame,
and stillness seemed the only form of rest.
But even roots that tremble in the dark
still reach for water hidden underground;
still hold some small, unyielding, stubborn spark
that hums a melody without a sound.
The mountains did not move to make it easy,
the valleys did not part to ease my load;
the world, at times, felt distant, cold, and breezy,
indifferent to the weight upon this road.
Yet here I stand, not because I never bent,
not because the storms all passed me by,
but because each fracture, every moment spent
in doubt, became the reason I could fly.
So let the sky stay restless, let it churn,
let clouds rehearse their arguments with light;
I have already learned what I must learn—
that growth is rarely gentle, rarely bright.
It hides inside the breaking and the mending,
inside the falling down and rising still,
inside a story that keeps on extending
past every valley, past every hill.
I am the root that would not let go,
the branch that bent but never truly broke;
I am the quiet, steady undertow
beneath the surface of the words I spoke.
And if you're standing where I used to stand,
unsure if morning holds a single ray—
just know that broken ground still holds the land,
and every root finds, somehow, its own way.