Beneath the hush of silver rain,
a seed waits in the dark—
not for lack of light,
but in honor of time.
The river does not rush the stone,
nor the moon beg the sun for dawn.
Even stars take centuries
to whisper their names in light.
Patience is the hush in the hallway
before the door opens,
the breath before the answer,
the ache before the bloom.
Learn from the tree—
how it bears the weight of seasons
without breaking.
How it drinks storms and silence
without complaint.
You are becoming.
Not in bursts,
but in slow, sacred folds
of being.
Let the days pass.
Let the sky spin.
You are not late—
you are rooting.
