On The Mountain

Trees can’t bloom until they grow, Deep roots seeking solace

below.

From ashes, flowers rise anew, burnt pages whispering

stories true.

On God’s Mountain, veiled in mist, worries cascade, their

grip dismissed.

Downward they tumble, like forgotten stones, As hurt

unravels, our brokenness atones.

Scars etched upon our fragile skin; Now glisten with love—a

golden spin.

Self-love blooms, a sacred art, For the women we were, and

the ones we’ll chart.

We relate, we reflect, like polished glass, Sunlight dancing off

windows, memories amassed.

Clear-eyed now, we glimpse destiny’s decree, Discovering the

women we’re meant to be.