Anchored in Motion

I come from soil that remembers—

hands that tilled, hearts that held on

through drought and downpour.

My grandmother’s laugh still hums

in the cracked bark of my memory,

a melody of patience and prayer.

Roots reach deep, silent and sure,

anchored in stories whispered at dusk:

the recipe no one wrote down,

the hymn that outlasted the storm,

the small courage it takes

to stay when leaving would be easier.

And yet—

there’s a tremor in the sap,

a restless pull toward light.

Branches stretch, defiant and tender,

chasing what the sky might offer.

They creak with the weight of becoming,

with the risk of reaching too far.

Still, they grow.

Still, I grow.

Not apart from the earth,

but because of it—

each leaf a promise,

each season a lesson

in letting go and starting again.

I am the echo of my roots

and the question of my branches—

the grounded dream,

the moving stillness,

the place where memory

meets momentum.