The earth remembers every footprint,
every scar pressed into its skin,
yet each dawn arrives
with pockets full of light.
I have seen fields
where drought cracked the language of rivers,
where silence hung from branches
like forgotten prayers.
Still, beneath the dust,
a seed rehearses its green miracle.
The wind does not ask
how many storms have passed;
it simply carries
the scent of becoming.
And the trees—
those patient keepers of time—
lift their hands skyward,
not in surrender,
but in faith.
Perhaps that is how the world survives:
not by avoiding the darkness,
but by planting small lanterns within it.
A child shares a loaf of bread.
A stranger offers a hand.
A voice rises against injustice.
A single act of kindness
takes root.
Then another.
And another.
Until the horizon,
once broken and gray,
begins to bloom.
So let us be gardeners
of what does not yet exist,
scattering courage
like seeds across uncertain ground.
For tomorrow is not found—
it is grown,
one hopeful heart
at a time.
