Where the Earth Holds Me and the Sky Calls My Name.

My roots are the shadows

that rise when the world grows quiet—

they hold the trembling stories

of everyone whose heartbeat

once carried mine.

In their dark warmth,

I feel old prayers

curling like smoke around my name;

I feel love buried so deep

it glows like embers

long after the fire is gone.

My roots are the hands

that lifted me when I could not stand,

the tears that fell

before mine ever learned to fall.

They are the soft, unseen places

where I learned

that strength can also break—

and still remain strength.

And my branches—

oh, they burn with longing.

They reach through clouds

as if searching for something

the sky has not yet made.

They shimmer with the light

of unfinished dreams—

they tremble, they stretch,

they dare.

Every leaf is a hope

I was once too afraid to name.

Some nights,

they catch the wind

and shake like a heartbeat

about to confess the truth:

I want to grow beyond myself.

Between my roots

and my branches,

I stand in the quiet storm of becoming—

pulled by memory,

pushed by possibility.

And in that wild, sacred pull

between where I come from

and where I am called to go,

I finally understand:

I was never meant to choose

between the earth and the sky.

I was meant to bloom

in the space between.