The Language of Not Knowing

Somewhere in the dark, the seed knows nothing of light but dreams in chlorophyll anyway— a green thought pushing through the weight of all that soil.

We are always becoming what we cannot yet name. The body a rough draft the heart revises with every breath, every small breaking that teaches us how to hold more.

In the mirror this morning I saw a stranger wearing my face, and she was beautiful—not because she was certain, but because she had learned the language of not knowing.

The light comes in pieces filtered through what we almost said, and we stand in the gaps, holding ourselves together with hands that have learned to open.