The Quiet Way Through

Beneath the surface…

the water is restless,

 currents twist like the muscles of a startled animal,

 but the boat is adrift without oars,

 trusting the river to loosen its fist-like currents.

The air is a pale animal…

 Its fur lifting in the wind beneath the bridge,

where the river’s mouth chews stones and spews them smooth,

as if aggression could be polished into silence.

Disappointment drifts in…

Like a fog of moths,

their wings brushing the skin of your thoughts,

leaving powdery traces of what you once wanted.

You stand still, letting them settle without swatting them away.

Forgiveness is…

Not a verdict,

but a slow untying of knots in wet rope,

 hands working without hurry,

the fibers softening under patient rain,

 until they fall open on their own.

And in the end…

The hand extended, fragile as glass,

reminds us that gentleness is not weakness,

but the most vulnerable act risks being broken,

all while being the most courageous,  

even as it chooses openness over armor.

In behavior, this is the softest blade,

the gentlest touch being the most exposed,

 a palm extended without armor,

skin meeting skin without the shield of certainty,

 trusting the air of fate not to close its hand too quickly,

for it cuts through fear not by force,

but by the quiet insistence that trust is still possible.