Becoming

By: An Observer on the Threshold

Words gather like rivers finding their course,

carrying the weight of the year

not to erase it,

but to reshape it.

In the quiet turning of time,

there is no leaving,

no cleaving of what was from what will be.

Only the steady weaving of threads—

a tapestry held taut by unseen hands.

The shape of what is next

does not rise suddenly;

it unfolds slowly,

as light shifts at the edge of dusk.

Strength moves beneath the surface,

a current unseen but felt—

not armor,

but the earth itself,

steady underfoot.

Becoming is not a moment,

but a rhythm.

A song hummed low,

carried by the wind,

softening the edges of what is held.

The future does not rush forward.

It waits,

gathering its shape

in the breath between thought and silence.

This is enough.

The unfolding,

the turning,

the tender weight of change

balanced in stillness.