The Quiet Places of Her Mind

Cheryl carries her world in the bend of her arms.

A child’s soft weight, a bag of worries.

Diapers and Dreams,

Bills and Blessings,

Each Moment stitched together by the fragile Thread of Endurance.

The world calls her strong, but strength feels different inside.

It feels like sleepless nights, comforting a Child’s Cry while her Own heart Cries in Silence.

It feels like standing in a Crowded Room and Still being Alone.

Trapped in the Corridors of the Quiet Places of Her Mind.

Her thoughts Scatter like Startled Birds.

They circle, and Then Collide.

Ideas blossom in wild colors,

then fade before they breathe.

She is a flood and a drought,

Overflowing, yet parched.

But hush, and listen deeper.

There is fire in that stillness,

Resilience carved into bone,

A pulse that will not quit.

The quiet holds seeds of creativity.

Of courage, and of beginnings not yet spoken.

She walks these lonely fields, and gathers wildflowers.

She brings them home to her children,

They do not see her silence, but her glow.

The quiet places of her mind, are not prisons.

They are gardens.

Although she wanders them alone, she is never without purpose.