Poem: Balance

Beneath the noise of hurried days,
seven rivers softly spin,
wheels of light beneath the skin,
ancient doors that open inward.

At the root, a crimson drum—
earth remembering my name.
I breathe like mountains do,
steady, low, unshaken.

Above it blooms a silver tide,
sacral moon in amber motion,
where grief dissolves to flowing song
and desire becomes devotion.

A golden fire turns the ribs,
sunlit forge of will and courage.
I gather scattered sparks of self
and wear them without fear.

In the center, green and endless,
the heart unfolds like spring rain.
Old wounds loosen petal by petal,
forgiveness growing wild again.

At the throat, blue bells awaken.
Truth rises clear as river water.
The voice no longer hides itself
behind silence dressed as peace.

Indigo gathers at the brow,
a midnight sky of inward stars.
I see beyond the restless veil—
intuition humming softly.

Then violet opens overhead,
a thousand quiet lights descending.
Not escape, but deep returning:
the soul remembering the whole.

And when the seven sing together,
balanced as dawn across the horizon,
I become less storm, less fracture—
more breath,
more light,
more alive.

Thank-you for reading.

Brenda Marie