Let it be the Mountain she finds Holy—
not because it sparkles,
seduces her
or speaks in riddles,

but because its dark loamy soil
receives her bare feet like a memory.

A prairie hill above the sea,
where grasses bow and whisper,
and the wind carries the salt and scent of things
too old for names—
that’s where the house stands.
Not built from stone,
but from time.
And longing.

And the laughter of those
who once remembered Eden.

Let her dig down,
as if the roots of a wildflower
were waiting to rise through her skin,
lifting her slowly from within—
the stem, the pistil,
the fragile yet indestructible bloom.
Let the soil speak to her in silence,
saying:

You are still loved.
You are still alive.
You are not what happened to you.

Let her turn toward the sun—
not in shame,
but in radiant defiance—
and know in that moment
where her help truly comes from.

Let her running to the mountain
be joy, not dread.
Let her ascent be not an exile,
but a return.

Let her wings unfold brazenly,
as the daughter of the living God.
Not tucked.
Not hidden.
Not compromised.

She does not belong to the mountain that mocks love
and feeds on the ruin of hearts,
or exploits that which is still unhealed

She belongs here—
where her own flesh and bone
become not only family
but friend,
through the common bond
of the soil that gives life to all who dare to sink into it.

She belongs
where peace lives in warm light on cold nights,
where cotton sheets smell of soap and skin,
and starlight sifts through trees
like the hush of forgiveness.

Let her remember her first love..
before the theft,
before the theater.
Before the wound.

Let her toes remember
what it was to wiggle in the dirt
of something unbroken,
unshamed,
true.

Let her find home again—
not in a place carved out for her,
but in the space she reclaims
with her own rootedness.

Let her petals unfold slowly in the sun—
but only with her feet deep in the mountain's soil,
where others also have planted their lives,
becoming one
in harmony of breath and memory and Grace.

She will not enter into a sepulcher
or a place that makes usury of her pain.
She will stand on the mount before the rising sun—
alone if she must,
but never abandoned.

And somewhere in the hush between
the breeze and the soil,
she may yet feel

the quiet echo
of someone still with her.

To those
who abandon the very souls
they once vowed
to die for

hear this...

Even a flower,
plucked and dead
in your careless hand,
will gift you
its fragrance.

It does not curse.
It does not withhold.
It bleeds beauty
for the one
who tore it
from its roots.

So too
do the truest hearts,
they bloom
for their betrayers,
and love
even as they wither.

As the spring wakes the world from its slumber,
The flowers sprout forth, pridefully gleaming,
Showing off their beauty in wondrous colors,
Filling the air with a sweet aroma that soothes the soul,
As the trees crown themselves with leaves, then blossoms,
I am reminded, just how beautiful...
You are.

-Umi

But what if the world ends tomorrow?
All the things left unsaid
All the kisses never given
All the moments never shared—
Where will they go?
Will they hover in the air
In the stagnant debris
Of a world ended?
All the things we held back
When we thought we had
All the time in the world
Will float aimlessly
Waiting for a place to land
But there is no place to land
For the world has ended
There is nowhere left to go

If I wait to say I love you
I might wake up one morning
And find you’re no longer there
And the flowers hidden in my closet
Will have nowhere to go
And if I wait to say I’m sorry
You might never know
And if the world ends tomorrow,
You might never hold me again
What if we kissed for the last time?
What if the last words we said
Echo through a lost eternity?
I would rather have made a million mistakes
Than stand in black
Holding a rose you never saw