Poem: The Unknown

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