The Hidden Current
Beneath the surface of our common days,
There runs a river, silent, deep, and clear.
Away from public noise and crowded ways,
It flows beyond the reach of doubt or fear.
We navigate the shallows and the stone,
The daily tasks that pull us to and fro,
But in the dark, when we are left alone,
We feel that ancient, steady water flow.
It is the pulse that binds the root to leaf,
The secret source that keeps the spirit green;
It offers us a refuge from our grief,
In all the quiet spaces in between.
No drought can touch the wellspring of this grace,
Which finds its home within our long embrace.
The Midnight Sculptor
The night is like a chisel in the hand,
That strips away the masks we wear by day.
The heavy roles that we can barely stand
Like autumn leaves are softly blown away.
And what is left is just the bone and light,
The honest truth of who we really are,
Revealed within the velvet of the night,
Beneath the gaze of one persistent star.
I see you not as how the world defines,
But as the soul I’ve come to know by heart;
In every shadow, beauty’s own designs,
A living, breathing, holy work of art.
The morning sun may bring the world’s disguise,
But I have seen the truth within your eyes.
The Final Compass
If I should lose my way in tangled wood,
Where every path is swallowed by the briar,
And things I once so clearly understood
Are lost within the smoke of some old fire;
I’ll listen for the cadence of your name,
To find the North that I have always known.
For you are more than just a fleeting flame,
You are the marrow and the very bone.
Let maps be burned and let the landmarks fall,
Let every road be covered by the sea;
Your voice remains the only steady call,
That brings the wandering spirit home to me.
In every life, in every turning tide,
I’ll find my way by walking at your side.
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