Softly, the Field Listens

This poem is my way of honouring a kind of steady, almost invisible gratitude—the kind that grows stronger with age and lingers long after the world stops watching.

I write to you

in the dim hush

of early morning,

where silence is not emptiness,

but a tapestry of what once was.

The wheat fields glow like

old gold –

not the kind you spend,

but the kind you bury

in memory’s drawer

and visit

only on days the wind sounds

like his laughter.

My hands tremble

on this worn blanket of decades,

wrinkled and embroidered

with small hurts,

a quiet kind of thankfulness

threaded through each frayed corner.

Not loud.

Never loud.

But steady.

Birdsong, faint and crisp,

fractures the stillness—

an echo from when

my knees were strong,

and my mouth was full of questions

no one had time to answer.

There is a pathway I remember

cut through amber fields—

we made it once

with baskets and giggles

and sunburnt foreheads,

his fingers brushing mine

with the bravery of young love.

It glows still,

in the broken pocket of my chest.

Illuminated,

not by forgiveness,

but by the strange glow of

endurance.

Of living on,

even when

the flame dwindled.

Even when

his chair stayed empty.

Now, I sit.

And I think too much

about soil.

How it holds everything.

Even the weight of our silence.

I used to fear darkness.

Now, I find it soft.

Velvety.

It doesn’t ask questions.

It listens.

Some days

I whisper my thank-yous

to the golden hush,

and hope the field hears.

Other days,

I wish it wouldn’t.

But I am still here.

Walking the threshold

between breath

and memory.

And if you ask what I’ve learned—

I will tell you:

quietness does not mean absence.

It means

everything is listening.

And sometimes,

that’s enough.