In the soul, flowers grow where sorrow once lay,
Blooming in shadows that won’t fade away.
From ashes of heartache, from silence and rain,
Rise petals of beauty born out of pain.
Not all are roses, not all are bright,
Some bloom in the hush of a sleepless night.
Some stretch from wounds we never quite show,
Still, in the soul, flowers somehow grow.
They root in the cracks we try to conceal,
Fed by the things we don’t always feel.
A touch, a loss, a soft goodbye—
Each leaves a seed that dares to try.
And when we are weary, broken or bare,
A blossom appears — unasked, but there.
Proof that the heart, though battered and slow,
Still carries a garden, quiet and low.
So tend to your soul, both tender and wild,
It carries the grace of the inner child.
Through storms, through stillness, trust what you know:
In even the darkest, the flowers will grow.
Thank-you for reading.
Much Love and light,
Brenda Marie
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