Where the Sky Learns My Name

This poem explores how nature becomes both a mirror and a teacher — reminding us that healing is not about escape, but returning home to ourselves.

Sometimes,

when I stand beneath the open sky,

I forget the noise of my own thoughts.

The wind rewrites them—

turning my fears into clouds,

my doubts into drifting leaves.

There’s a kind of silence here

that doesn’t ask for words,

only listening.

The river moves like memory—

never stopping,

never the same twice.

It knows the art

of letting go beautifully.

I once believed healing

was something you earned

after pain had left.

But the forest taught me

it’s what grows

while the ache still blooms.

Every tree here

has known the weight of storms,

yet it still rises

with soft green faith.

I press my hand

against the bark of an old oak,

and for a moment,

it feels like the earth

remembers me.

Maybe we are not so different—

you, me,

the rain,

the soil that keeps forgiving our footsteps.

Maybe the sky learns our names

when we finally look up,

unafraid to be small.

And in that smallness,

we find peace—

not because we conquered the world,

but because we finally belonged to it.