I learned patience from the ground.
The way soil holds a seed in its dark mouth
and says not yet, not yet, then yes.
My roots are ordinary miracles:
a kettle left warm on the hob,
names stitched into the hems of towels,
a story told twice and better the second time.
They keep the old weather of my life,
the soft rain, the salt trace on the step.
The hands that said stay and meant grow.
But the branches in me won’t stop counting the sky.
They argue with the wind,
map light with small green alphabets,
accept that reach requires a little sway.
They take the bruise of weather and keep going,
learning how to hold and let go at once.
Between them, I am pulled into shape:
down into memory where the earth is steady,
up into tomorrow, where the air keeps moving.
I stand because something unseen stands in me.
I bend because the future keeps asking its questions.
Once, I had to get cold enough to know.
That ice can burn.
I learned change by holding it too long,
fingers stung awake by what looked like stillness.
Since then, I trust the quiet forces:
germination, thaw, the rumor of sap.
If you ask what grounds me, I’ll say:
the unshowy work of staying.
If you ask what carries me forward, I’ll say:
the practiced art of leaning into light.
Roots keep the promise.
Branches keep the appointment.
I am the trunk between,
ringed with years I didn’t notice forming,
lifting what I love,
and anchored to what taught me how.
About the Creator
Diane Foster
I’m a professional writer, proofreader, and all-round online entrepreneur, UK. I’m married to a rock star who had his long-awaited liver transplant in August 2025.
When not working, you’ll find me with a glass of wine, immersed in poetry.
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Comments (3)
This is absolutely gorgeous, gentle, wise, and full of quiet strength.
This is stunning Diane. The way you’ve presented the whole tree metaphor is ultimately graceful in its unpretentiousness, with its message both delicate, but determined—I trust the quiet forces: germination, thaw, the rumor of sap.—such beauty in ordinary nature. This, in my mind, perfectly reflects the ‘unshowy work’ you refer to. Those final eight lines, their message, just gorgeous 🥰
I love how the domestic imagery the kettle, the stitched names becomes sacred through tenderness. It’s the kind of writing that reminds us how the ordinary is miraculous when we look closely enough.