Poem:

If you don’t practice your gifts, they slip away,
Like footprints in sand after a long, hot day.
What once came easy starts to feel unclear,
The song grows quiet when you stop your ear.

A talent unused curls inward, small,
Like a muscle that forgets its call.
The fire still lives, but it needs your breath—
Neglect is a kind of gentle death.

So show up clumsy, tired, unsure,
That’s how gifts learn how to endure.
What you return to, again and again,
Returns to you—stronger in the end.

Thank-you for reading.

Brenda Marie