Broom of Acceptance

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She steps into the courtyard

in the hush before morning,

a coconut palm leaf broom in hand—

fibers soft as whispers.

Of memories she’s never dared to speak.


The broom begins its dance:

a slow, rhythmic whisper against the packed earth,

a sound known to generations.

A quiet purging of the soul's deep dust,

sweeping the mind of its persistent rust.



Cast out the shadows, let blind days concede.

The  broom sighs, “Plant a hopeful seed.”

For moral ground must first be swept anew,

clearing the inner self, honest and true.


With patient hands, she sweeps.

Each outward stroke, a gentle push,

for clarity rises from forgotten trust.

She does not rush,

she’s learned the cost

of hurrying through pain.

To cleanse the inner self, a sacred chore,

where thoughts once tangled now reside no more.


The broom moves slow, a steady, quiet rhythm,

stirring up old laughter, bits of silence,

the scent of monsoon rain on earth.

It clears the path for common good to bloom.


That woven broom knows where new truths grow.

Life’s courtyard calls, though winds may fiercely blow.

It hums of wisdom, struggles understood,

of burdens lifted for the greater good.

A shared space bright, where truth and kindness gleam.


Do not despair when darkness reappears—

the coconut broom remembers countless years.

With every stroke, a sorrow swept aside,

a meticulous clearing of the ground,

for inner peace, your steadfast heart’s true guide.

From selfish grime to grace, it softly calls,

releasing the mind from its self-built walls.



Once, she tried to sweep away

everything—

the ache of missing,

the sharpness of waiting.

But the dust always returned,

as it does.


Now she knows:

it is not the sweeping that ends grief,

but the sweeping that lets her live beside it,

a quiet act of acceptance.


And in the stillness after dusk,

when the courtyard holds its breath,

she leans on the broom—

a quiet strength, a faithful friend,

ready to face the coming dawn.


For every fallen leaf,

every whispered loss,

there is the promise of light,

growing softly from the earth—

swept clear,

ready to bloom again.

A tapestry of clean, for all to share.

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