When Breakwaters Rise

On the day we carry voices

across the fraying horizon,

our mouths become bridges—

soft arches built from bones of hope.

Each word: flight—

a bird released from grief,

learning to circle wide.

Here stands a child of wind

with palms full of memory—

sun-baked root, salted tear,

every fragment a prayer.

We assemble these pieces

into something holy:

community, in our bodies,

a living mosaic of breath and steady breath.

Do not fear the void.

It is not absence—

it is the space where tomorrow

waits to be shaped by our courage.

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