The Woman Who Bloomed In Winter

 

The Woman Who Bloomed In Winter

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She was a flower born for the golden spring,

But life placed her under an endless, weeping rain,

A promised garden of velvet roses

Left her with only the thorns and the pain.

She wore her grace like a heavy crown,

While beneath her ribs, a quiet ocean threatened to drown.

***

She fed the little birds in her sheltering nest,

Even when no one cared for the roots of the tree,

A lantern consuming its own oil in a dark room,

She gave away her warmth, wild and free.

She spent her light ensuring others could safely sail,

A solitary lighthouse standing stark against the gale.

***

Her nights were filled with heavy, shifting shadows,

Her brightest dreams were buried deep in the dust,

The hands that were meant to hold her gently

Forgot the sacred language of love and trust.

She was treated like a deep well in a desert place-

Treasured for her water, but forgotten in the drought's embrace.

***

She carried mountains wrapped in the fabric of her shawl,

Walking through the blizzards without demanding a coat,

A woman who fractured her own foundation, piece by piece,

To keep her children’s fragile lives afloat.

Giving away her warmth until she was nearly gone,

A silent ghost of comfort waiting for the dawn.

***

Then came a gaze that did not look at her burdens,

But looked deep into the spaces of her soul,

A gentle hand that reached into her winter,

To touch the pieces and make her feel whole.

Someone did not just praise the heavy weight she bore,

But offered to hold the hands that were weary and sore.

***

The first thaw of spring cracking through a glacier,

That kindness broke her silence, letting the river run free,

Someone reminded her wounded, scarred heart

Of the beautiful years she was still meant to see.

They looked past her duties, her armor, and her power,

To find the breathtaking, fragile morning flower.

***

The world may judge from a distant, safe shore,

The world may speak without knowing the cost,

But only the tree remembers the branches that broke,

And the bitter winters of everything she lost.

Was it a mistake? Was it a sin to want to breathe?

When the coldness of the soul is all you bequeath?

***

Yet, a river does not stop for the stones in its bed,

A flower does not refuse the sky after the rain,

Do not mistake her scars for her final defeat-

They are the maps of where she conquered her pain.

For even a bird with a fractured, mended wing

Deserves the open sky and a chance to sing.

***

She is no longer a tragic monument to sorrow,

Nor a forgotten chapter written in the mud,

Like a lotus rising from the deepest, darkest waters,

She untangled her roots to prepare for the bud.

She was a seed buried deep in the crushing earth,

That used the very darkness to give herself rebirth.

***

Because the strongest souls do not just survive the storm-

They drink the rain, they shatter the night,

And like the quiet dawn breaking over the hills,

They step into their own majestic light.