At least the wind still knows my name,
it whispers through the windowpane—
a gentle hush, not loud or grand,
but soft enough to understand.
At least the rain still falls the same,
on thirsty earth, without disdain.
It does not ask what I’ve been through,
it only says, I fall for you.
At least the sky does not demand
I smile when I can barely stand.
It stretches wide with room to grieve,
and offers clouds to help me breathe.
At least the night brings honest peace,
not joy, but still—relief, at least.
The stars don’t fix what came undone,
but light remains when day is gone.
And in this quiet, broken place,
there is no shame in slow embrace.
No need to win, no race to run—
just space to rest when day is done.
So let me be, if just for now,
not whole, not strong—I’ll learn the how.
Relief may not be cure or feast,
but I am breathing.
That’s enough.
At least.
Thank-you for reading.
Remember there are many paths back to God.
Follow your own path,
Brenda Marie
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