Echoes of Grace

We do not march with banners, no trumpets split the dawn; our anthem is a radio hiss, a grid ref softly drawn. We shoulder maps and questions, breathe cedar, sage, and rain; the mountains keep their secrets— we listen for a name. Hands rough with midnight searching trace hope along a ridge; headlamps paint brief constellations across a shadowed bridge. We learn the language of boot prints, the tremor of a bark; our compass is compassion that glows inside the dark. No laurels crown the finish, no medals seal our worth; the prize is quiet footfalls returning home to earth. So let the boardroom beckon— titles fade like fog at dawn; service is the humble spark that keeps the beacon on. Together we are signal fire, steady in the night: many hearts, one purpose— to guide the lost to light.   *The poem is dedicated to those who take up the call to save those they've never met. 

In the hush between the stacks, where whispered knowledge hums, we’ve watched you shelve bright visions, building kingdoms out of crumbs. You cataloged our questions, inked answers in the air, tucked hope into each margin— left fingerprints of care. Now the bookmark lifts, mid-chapter, and a brand-new story calls: a grander hall of learning with fresh corridors and walls. Go, trace those uncut pages, let possibility unfurl; bind dreams in sturdy covers for another eager world. Yet know that here—between these aisles— our memories still glow: late-night planning, laughter shelved where only colleagues know. We’ll keep those dog-eared moments, their comfort soft and worn, a well-loved, shared anthology we’ll open when we mourn. So turn the page with courage, write boldly, line by line; the lore you leave behind us makes every footnote shine. Our chapter’s last italics read: “Thank you—see you again,” for stories cross like constellations— and ours will meet...

In the quiet hours, as I rest and heal, Two small bodies curl close, their warmth I feel. Not stolen, but gifted, a sacred embrace, A reminder of love in this tender space. Their purring hums a hymn of grace, Echoing rhythms I cannot replace. Healing flows not just through me, But through this bond of shared energy. I think of Christ’s call, his radical plea, “Love even your enemies; let them be free.” Not hoarding our light, not guarding our flame, But sharing it freely, in mercy’s holy name. For warmth is a cycle, a generous give, A way to remind us we all need to live. And here in my rest, their closeness a prayer, God’s love whispered softly through the care that we share. So I hold my kitties, and they hold me too, In this moment of giving, our love is renewed. Though I mend from the body, the spirit is clear— We thrive when we’re open, when we draw near.    

  I carry a world inside my skin, A storm that no one sees begin. The lightning strikes, the thunder rolls, But silence wraps around my soul. They see the surface, bright and clear, A mask of strength, no hint of fear. Yet underneath, the battles rage, An untold war inside my cage. My mind a race, too fast, too slow, Where focus comes and then lets go. I chase the moments, try to stay, But thoughts slip through, they run away. My body feels like shifting sand, Some days I stumble just to stand. The pain, the fog, they take their toll, Yet still I fight to stay whole. For though you cannot see the fight, I bear the scars of endless night. And though my path is steep and long, I’m still here, trying to stay strong.

 We are the daughters of the witches you couldn’t burn, From fires where shadows twisted, and darkness learned That truth is a flame you cannot snuff, A light in the wild, fierce, and tough. From ancient mouths that whispered spells, From tongues cut silent in cold, dark cells, We rose with the smoke through the midnight air, Unseen, unheard, but always there. We are the daughters who carry their names, Who dance on the ashes of long-quenched flames. Our bodies, a testament to battles long fought, Our lives, the magic that history sought. We know what it means to be feared for our grace, To walk through the world, always out of place, To bend the lines of what’s wrong or right, To claim the dark and call it light. They hunted us then, with fire and steel, Afraid of the strength they could not conceal. But we’ve learned from their fear, turned it to power— Bloomed in the night like a moon-kissed flower. We are the daughters who bend, but don’t break, The voices of those who could no...