Haecceity
The forests that once grew in my heart,
then were cut down without compassion
who could have known
that from their ashes
they would dare to remember spring again?
Who could have believed
that broken roots still trust the earth,
that seeds are not offended by pain,
that with her
they would scatter themselves once more
into life.
My soul, dragged through the depths of darkness,
did not know it was waiting for light.
While I was speaking the language of night,
she arrived quietly,
carrying dawn in her hands,
and without knowing it,
she wrote my name into the morning.
As I wrestled with the existential ache of my being,
a stranger even to myself,
who could have known
she would become the balm to that existentialist thoughts?
Not with promises,
not with grand declarations
but simply by being,
simply by being her.