Quiet surrender 
amidst 
wondrous splendor. 

Love 
reshapes us 
again. 

Here 
under a blanket 
of firelight. 

The autumn tree 
aflame, 
trusts the season 
to reveal what 
remains. 

Leaves drop - 
an offering of ashes 
back to the soil 
of becoming. 

And tender pruning 
promises new life 
in Your time. 

Not empty. 
No less alive. 
Resting. 

We still 
fall. 

The hands of Love 
remain. 

Let our first instinct 
this time be 
not to hide. 

Simply 
return. 

Home.

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I receive You fully.

As the soil that nourishes,
the wellspring that sustains,
the light that expands. 

Branches extend,
leaves unfurl,
catching drops 
of Your golden grace.

There is joy 
in this abundance. 

Morning melodies,
shade to share,
and twilight tenderness. 

But the summer tree
knows temperance 
as Wisdom ripens 
through seasoned roots. 

Gentle hands tend faithfully. 
Life flows root to crown. 

And the canopy rustles
with whispers of restoration.

“Come and taste 
the fruit of the tree
we have become.

Receive what
Love has grown.”

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In the tree 
of we 
deep into the soil
of forgetting,
You found me
hiding.

Bare,
vulnerable,
uncertain.

I had perceived
myself 
alone in the dark.

Roots 
clinging to fear
can never draw
true nourishment.

You knew this.

Yet
You never shamed 
my grasping. 

You stayed. 

Patiently tending the soil
of my becoming. 

Knowing…

this spring tree 
blooms 
not to be 
loved. 

The spring tree 
blooms,
remembering it is 
Loved. 

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Stripped down to bare essence, 
the last leaf spirals 
and I sway. 

Awareness without certainty. 

I do not bear fruit, 
wear dew-scented leaves, 
or glow in fiery hues. 

Yet my silhouette stands - 
sacred in stillness. 

I am a sanctuary. 
I am a living sacrament 
with roots born of truth. 

In radiant restoration, 
in unadorned magnificence. 

Part grief. 
Part wonder. 
Part relief. 

I am the winter tree - 
resting in simple aliveness.

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On a winter night
under a waning crescent, 
a seed was planted 
in the womb of the earth.

As the ground warmed
by the sunlight of passing days, 
the shell cracked
and a tender seedling arose. 

Seasons passed,
and the sprout stretched skyward -
instinctively reaching up,
toward a light 
that felt like home.

With time,
a rose stood 
fully flowered 
and adored.

But
she mistook her blooming 
for belonging
and adornment 
for essence.

A parachute of petals,
floating and swayed 
by changing winds,
she drifted from herself. 

Until 
she heard the earth sing her name. 

As the days shortened
and the air grew crisp,
the rose followed 
the Mother’s melody.

In a moment of surrender,
she shed her petals, 
and let her seed fall.

As autumn deepened, 
she nestled into the darkened soil, 
where silence gathered around her 
like sanctuary. 

There
beneath all striving, 
she listened. 

And in this sanctified stillness, 
she began to truly feel
her own radiance
through rhythm and reverence.

Nothing to become,
only remembered.

A sacred pulse. 
Warmth within the dark.
Light that needed no witness.

Initiation
without need for
admiration. 

Ever unfolding 
her true nature. 

The Divine again, 
blossomed.  

The soil forever 
hummed her name.  

Home is here,
where Love 
took root. 

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Two guardians stood at a doorway.

One watched the horizon,
afraid of who might leave.

One watched the threshold,
afraid of who might enter.

Both sworn to protect a precious treasure.

One reached outward, 
searching. 

One turned inward, 
sheltering. 

For years,
they misunderstood one another.

Chasing,
running.

Seeking,
hiding.

Neither fully able to trust.

But the treasure
never asked for defense,
only remembrance.

The doorway was not a battlefield.
It was home.

When the guardians finally looked at one another,
they saw the same ache,
reflected back.

Both longing for connection,
learning caution along the way.

Different strategies.
Same devotion.

So they softened their defenses.

Not all at once,
but enough to listen.

One learned discernment.
One learned honesty.

And the heart,
waiting faithfully between them,
whispered:

It’s safe to be seen.
I will not abandon you.

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