(When you become quieter than you really are)
You sat in the corner.
Not because you were in trouble.
Just because
beneath your sweater
there lived a little warmth.
And inside the warmth,
a voice.
Small.
Quiet.
Warm as the first snow
melting in your hand.
It was afraid.
Afraid of becoming too loud.
Afraid of breaking.
So you kept it safe.
Quiet as a mitten
forgotten in spring.
Now people ask:
"Why are you always so quiet?"
And you smile.
Because you know
that voice
is made of time.
And some words
grow slowly,
like snowdrops
beneath the March sun.
*
One day
it will find its way.
It always does.
1d ago
Jun 3, 2026 at 7:28 PM UTC
(When you become quieter than you really are)
You sat in the corner.
Not because you were in trouble.
Just because
beneath your sweater
there lived a little warmth.
And inside the warmth,
a voice.
Small.
Quiet.
Warm as the first snow
melting in your hand.
It was afraid.
Afraid of becoming too loud.
Afraid of breaking.
So you kept it safe.
Quiet as a mitten
forgotten in spring.
Now people ask:
"Why are you always so quiet?"
And you smile.
Because you know
that voice
is made of time.
And some words
grow slowly,
like snowdrops
beneath the March sun.
*
One day
it will find its way.
It always does.
From : Tales from the Other Side of the Pillow (for kids and grownups where kids live)
Third door: The Breath Before Speaking
(all that was left unsaid)
