Beneath the soil, where silence keeps,
Lie ancient wounds the spirit weeps.
Roots tangled tight in grief and clay,
Forgotten truths that lost their way.
The wind may howl, the storms may churn,
But deep below, the roots still yearn.
Not for light that flickers fast—
But warmth, and stillness built to last.
O gentle hands, now touch the ground,
With tender care, and love profound.
Speak kindly to the sleeping seed,
Not every ache was born of need.
Pour waters clear, not thick with shame,
And call the broken roots by name.
Let sorrow rise, then fall like rain,
And feed the cracks with soft refrain.
For healing is a quiet art,
A listening soul, an open heart.
What once was twisted, torn, or scarred,
Can bloom again—though it was hard.
So dig with grace, and not with fear,
The roots you tend are drawing near.
In time, the tree will stand in truth—
With leaves of light, and healed roots.
Thank-you for reading.
Much love and Light,
Brenda Marie Fluharty
Discover more from Writing Through the Soul
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
Interesting!