“She Is Made of Quiet Things”

She is made of quiet things—
like early morning mist
and the hush that follows
a lullaby.

Not loud,
not sharp,
but steady—
the kind of presence
that stays
even after you’ve left the room.

She doesn't knock.
She lingers,
in the scent of lavender on old scarves,
in pages bookmarked with petals,
in the way your chest feels
just before you cry.

She speaks in lowercase—
not from weakness,
but from reverence.
As if each word
is a sacred stone
laid gently
along the path
back to yourself.

She folds pain
like origami—
creases it,
shapes it,
until sorrow flies.

She doesn’t ask for the spotlight—
she becomes the candle.
Burning low,
but enough
to keep you warm.

There is nothing fragile
about her softness.
She is not the glass.
She is the sea-glass—
shaped by time,
and tides,
and the tumble of things
others tried to discard.

She remembers everything.

The way people say “I’m fine”
when they mean “I’m drowning.”
The tremble in hands
that have held too much.
The silence between
“I’m here” and “goodbye.”

She has learned to read grief
in the quietest corners—
like a scholar of sighs.

And yet,
she is not sad.

She is the garden
after the wildfire.
The first daisy
through cracked pavement.
The rain
that remembers how to dance.

She is tea left steeping too long—
rich, dark,
unexpectedly strong.

She is the poem
you didn’t realize was
about you
until the last line
left you breathless.

She is not for crowds.
She is for
late nights,
low lights,
and someone
who listens
all the way to the end.

She is the stitch
in your grandmother’s quilt
that held it all together.
The song your mother hummed
while folding clothes
with tired hands.
The prayer your sister whispered
to the stars
without knowing she believed in anything.

She is made of
quiet things—
but she has never been small.

Her strength does not arrive
on horseback.
It walks beside you,
barefoot,
whenever your own legs
give out.

She is the kind of brave
that doesn’t need to be seen
to save.

She is the pause
before you say something true.
The breath
before you leap.

She writes her name
not in ink,
but in the way you now
speak more gently
to yourself.

She is the ache
that reminds you
you still feel.
The joy
that returns
without fanfare.

And when the world gets loud—
when everything screams
and shakes
and spins—
she waits.

Not out of fear,
but because she knows:
The stillest ground
is where the seeds take root.

And when it all passes,
as it always does,
you will find her—
barefoot
beneath a tree
older than memory,
smiling,
waiting,
ready to walk with you again.