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1 051
The space between
A.R.ABDULLAH
The quiet earth breathes underneath our feet,
Where ancient stone and whispering wildness meet.
No grand designs or marble towers rise
To catch the wonder of the open skies;
Instead, the unpaved path, the dew-kissed fern,
Teach patient hearts how simply we can learn.
We share a glance across a crowded room,
A sudden flash of light within the gloom,
A raw, unvarnished truth of joy and pain,
Like sudden thunder and the summer rain.
No masks can hide the marrow of the soul
When broken pieces yearn to make us whole.
This is the art of breath, the verse unspung,
The oldest song that ever has been sung:
To touch a hand, to listen to the tide,
To lay our restless armor all aside,
And find within the simplest, quiet space
The boundless depth of human love and grace.
1 051
A Geography of What Remains
A.R.ABDULLAH
There is a quiet ache in the morning light
when it falls across an empty chair,
a stillness so thick you can hear the dust settling
on the things we meant to say, but never did.
We carry the ghosts of old rooms inside us,
the sound of rain against a window that no longer exists,
the warmth of a hand that has long since let go,
and the strange, haunting sweetness of memories
that refuse to fade, even as the light turns gray.
We wander through these ordinary days,
surrounded by the quiet work of living:
the dry leaves scraping against the pavement,
the cold air pressing against our ribs,
the sudden, sharp sting of solitude in a crowded street.
And yet, in the very middle of this heavy silence,
something inside us reaches outward.
We hum a forgotten tune to the quiet walls;
we trace the curve of a tree branch against a pale sky;
we shape our longing into something soft, something real.
This is the secret beauty of our small, fragile lives
that grief and grace grow from the very same soil.
The heart breaks open, not to end,
but to make room for the light to enter.
Even in the deepest winter of our loneliness,
when the earth seems frozen and completely still,
the roots beneath us are nursing a secret fire,
waiting for the sun to call them back.
We are made of everything we have lost,
yet we go on painting the dark with our breath.
We write our grief upon the morning air
and find, to our quiet wonder,
that it turns into a song.
For as long as there is a sky to watch,
a wind to hear, and a heart beating in the dark,
we are never truly alone,
we are always, always blooming from the ash.
