Between Bruises & Blooms

The forest does not ask
whether I am worthy.

It simply opens.

The cedars part
like old women making room
at a table they’ve kept warm
for daughters who finally found their way home.

I kneel
where moss has softened the bones of yesterday,
press my palms into damp earth,
and remember—

magic was never loud.

It was rosemary
hung over a doorway.

Rainwater
saved in cracked jars.

Dandelions
picked by children
who didn’t know
they were gathering wishes.

The moon has always spoken
in a language
that only broken women remember.

She taught me
how to disappear
without ever leaving.

She taught me
that healing
is sometimes nothing more
than surviving another winter
until something inside you
decides to bloom.

So if you find me
walking barefoot
through forgotten places,
don’t call me lost.

I am only praying
in the oldest cathedral
the world has ever built.