“Where the Quiet Poems Rise”

Poetry never truly disappears—it waits. It waits in the corners of silence, in forgotten notebooks, and in the soft moments between one breath and the next. At least, that was what Liana used to believe. She had once written poems everywhere—on scraps of paper, in the margins of books, even on the backs of receipts. Her friends called her the girl who saw metaphors in everything.

But life, as it sometimes does, had grown loud.

Work deadlines. Constant messages. Responsibilities arriving one after another without pause. Slowly, without realizing it, Liana stopped writing. Her once-bright notebook stayed closed on her desk. Days turned into weeks, and the blank pages began to feel like quiet accusations.

One Saturday morning, after a long and draining week, Liana finally allowed herself a slow moment. She opened her window and let in the cool dawn air. The world was still half-asleep, and for the first time in a long while, she felt a small ache inside her—the desire to reconnect with something she had lost.

Coffee in hand, she sat at her old wooden desk. The notebook lay there, untouched for months. She hesitated, her fingers brushing the cover. She whispered, almost apologetically, “I’m sorry I left you waiting.”

When she opened the notebook, the empty page glowed in the morning light, not accusing her but welcoming her back. Still, no words came. Only a gentle pressure in her chest, like something was trying to rise.

She looked outside. A small bird hopped along the railing. The sunlight stretched slowly across the floor. The world felt simple, soft, honest. And for a moment, she wondered if poetry had been waiting right here all along.

Later that morning, Liana decided to take a walk to clear her thoughts. She wandered through the small park near her home. The trees swayed gently as if whispering secrets to the wind. Children laughed in the distance. A man sat on a bench sketching leaves, and an elderly woman read a book with calm dedication.

Everything felt like a poem she had forgotten how to write.

She sat on a bench beneath an old banyan tree. Its roots spread deep and wide, grounding the earth beneath it. Liana closed her eyes. She listened. The wind. Footsteps. Birds. Her own heartbeat. And then, softly, like a familiar voice returning after a long journey, a line formed in her mind:

“Even in silence, something grows.”

She opened her eyes quickly and whispered the words aloud to be sure they were real. Then she repeated them again, letting them settle into her. A small smile touched her lips. Something inside her unlocked.

She reached into her bag and took out her notebook. Her pen hovered over the page before she finally wrote the line down. The words looked simple, but to her, they were everything—a beginning, a return, a promise.

As she continued writing, her thoughts poured out gently, like water finding its path after being blocked for too long. She wrote about the sunlight resting on her windowsill. About the bird on the railing. About the banyan tree whose roots held the earth together. About herself—quiet, tired, but still capable of beginning again.

They were not perfect poems. They were not meant to be. They were honest, soft, human—and that was enough.

By the time she closed the notebook, her heart felt lighter. She realized that poetry did not demand perfection; it only asked her to pay attention—to the world, to herself, to the little things that still held beauty.

As she walked home, she felt a quiet excitement that she hadn’t felt in months. Her notebook was no longer empty. Her heart was no longer silent. And she knew that even if life grew noisy again, she would keep listening for the quiet places where poems rise.

Because poetry was not something she had lost. It was something that had patiently waited for her return.