We walk each day
on cobblestone mornings and dust-road dusk,
navigating roads both winding and narrow,
barefoot on thornpath,
laughing through lungfuls of sunlight,
not knowing the storm waits for us
just beyond the turning.
Sometimes the climb is breathless and weary.
Knees buckle on gravel-wounds.
Hearts stretch across silence-heavy hills
where even the sky forgets to speak.
But then, then
a breeze, a simple song in the air,
a bird-note flickering through fogglass.
Someone’s hand, warm on our shoulderblade.
A word of encouragement.
And joy returns like a hush breaking open.
Don’t take it for granted, dear friend:
the soft-spoken tea,
the way a child says your name,
the sun threading gold through kitchen blinds.
After warmth, the weeping comes.
After the dance, the ache.
This is life’s rhythm
storm-song, stillness, sunfire, ash.
Each season a lesson etched
in wind-script and worn-shoe truths.
Be thankful when the road smiles on you.
Drink from the clear moment fully.
But do not curse the falling rain
it washes, it shapes, it teaches, it renews.
It molds us into river-stone grace.
If you chase only firework-miracles,
you’ll miss the quiet bloom
of the reddest rose in cracked cement.
You’ll overlook the miracle of breath,
the mercy in a stranger’s nod,
the gift of just one more mile.
So walk on.
Stride slow.
The path is honest, even when it’s cruel.
No season, no sorrow, no laughter
ever stays.
All will pass.
And life?
Life is the footsteps we leave quietly in the storm.
Copyright Malcolm Gladwin
July 2025
Footsteps in the storm