Roots and Branches

My roots live deep beneath my skin,

quiet, steady, holding stories I never fully tell.

They are the hands that raised me,

the voices that shaped me,

the places that taught me how to stay

even when the world tried to pull me away.

My roots whisper in the dark,

reminding me who I was

before life asked me to be so many things.

They keep me from drifting,

they keep me from breaking,

they keep me from forgetting

that I am made of people who survived storms

far wilder than the ones I fear today.

But my branches

they are restless, hungry, reaching.

They stretch toward distant light,

toward dreams I have not held yet,

toward futures that tremble like warm air

at the edge of morning.

My branches carry my hope,

my questions,

my courage to grow beyond everything

I once thought I could be.

And somewhere between the pull of roots

and the pull of sky,

I stand.

Not fully grounded,

not fully free,

but learning that I need both

the depth that steadies me

and the wings that rise through me.

I am made of earth.

I am made of sky.

And I am still becoming.