tomorrow blooms like a
quiet miracle (its petals
of maybe and soon) as we,
with hearts half-heavy,
step into the aching sunlight
of our own becoming.

who knew responsibility
would taste like bittersweet rain
and feel like stitching stars
into a patchwork sky?

(oh the ordinary
sacrifices:
the last bite shared,
the held tongue,
the midnight hour spent
learning the language of each
other’s silences)

we are
the growing things,
the root-bound wanderers,
hands ***** with the soil
of problem-solving—
we take what is broken,
and (together)
make it whole.

love is the quiet glue,
the hum of bees,
the secret rhythm
that bends us forward
into the soft arms
of the future.

and though the weight of the world
may sometimes press like a
question (too big
for one alone),

we,
with courage stitched in seams,
find answers
in the small
and shared.