There is a road the map forgot,
a silver thread through sleeping pine,
where footsteps fade like spoken thoughts
and stars arrive before their time.
No sign explains the bending path,
no lantern marks what waits ahead;
the night keeps all its secrets close,
yet still we wander softly led.
Because the unknown is not empty—
it hums beneath the ribs of fear,
a quiet pulse, a hidden river,
whispering, something sacred’s here.
The seed beneath the winter soil
does not yet know the shape of spring.
The tide that leaves the harbor dark
returns with shells the moonlight sings through.
And we are much the same:
unfinished songs with trembling hands,
learning to trust the unseen bridge
between the heart and distant lands.
There is a beauty in not knowing—
in doors unopened, skies unread,
in every fragile maybe
the soul is brave enough to tread.
For certainty can build a fortress,
stone by stone, secure and small;
but wonder leaves the windows open
so awe may enter through them all.
So walk awhile without the answers.
Let mystery become your guide.
Some truths are only found by those
who dare to meet the dark-eyed tide.
And when the dawn breaks gold and silent
across the valleys of the new,
you’ll find the unknown was not empty—
it was becoming you.
Thank-you for reading.
Brenda Marie
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What a beautiful poem, Brenda. I love how you turn uncertainty from something to fear into something sacred—a quiet pulse beneath the ribs of fear. The image of the seed beneath winter soil not knowing spring yet is so tender and true. And that final line, “it was becoming you,” gave me chills. This piece feels like a gentle hand on the shoulder, reminding us that not knowing isn’t emptiness—it’s possibility learning our shape. Thank you for writing this.🌺🤝
Thank you so much for these beautiful words. I’m deeply touched by how fully you received the heart of the poem. Your reflection on uncertainty as “possibility learning our shape” is incredibly moving—that’s such a tender and wise way to express it.
I love that the image of the seed beneath winter soil stayed with you. There’s something so human about those unseen seasons of becoming, where growth is happening quietly long before we can recognize it. And I’m especially grateful the final line resonated with you the way it did.
Thank you for reading with such openness and care. Your response feels like its own kind of poetry, and I truly appreciate you sharing it here. 🌺🤝