Episode 110: Poetry Reading

The wind, green fields, trees, wildflowers, lakes, rivers, oceans— in them the voice of the ancestors speaks to my soul. I stand on their shoulders, with kindness, strength, and love rooted in me. Roots run deep; when storms come and wind lashes the hedges, I bend and do not break. I keep kindness near as a quiet reflex, believing it should be a birthright, a rhythm in my breath. Love begins and ends with me, even when given and not returned, it does not die and it does not come back void. It travels like light through the quiet rooms of memory, lighting the corners where doubt gathered, turning fear into dawn. Like the trees, like the green fields, like the flowers, we all carry a unique beauty. No one is more beautiful than another. We display our beauty in harmony, each hue a note in a living chorus. Lakes, rivers, oceans are powerful, whether standing still or moving, they keep ancient time. Mighty enough to create paths, to carry you on journeys, with currents that whisper beneath the surface, guiding toward truth. The voice of the ancestors flows beneath my feet, a chorus in the wind, a hammer on the forge of my heart. I carry their maps in my hands and their songs in my veins, learning to walk softly, yet with a will that never yields. In open skies where horizons meet, I hear promises in the rustle of leaves, in the hush between breaths. Promises of kindness, of courage wrapped in gentleness, of love that grows stronger when shared, not hoarded. The earth remembers every footprint, every act of care, and I tread with gratitude, leaving footprints that heal. I bend toward mercy, I rise toward justice, speaking with the patience of rivers and the quiet endurance of mountains. If storms return, I cradle the inner garden of my spirit, watering it with hope, feeding it with honesty, pruning what harms, letting resilience bloom in colors I name and in colors I cannot. For I am made of wind and soil and singing seed, a chorus of kin across time, braided by memory and dream. All around me the world testifies with beauty— and I, too, am a proof of grace, a living note in the symphony of becoming.Written by https://www.threads.com/@lifeispoetrytoo This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit anureetwrites.substack.com