Silver Seam: Lessons from Two Winters

Stanza 1  

I walked two winters with a quiet mouth,  

the days folded thin and softened at the edge.  

In hush I found a lantern, small and south,  

its scripture-light a slow and steady pledge.

Stanza 2  

I kept my voice like coins beneath my tongue,  

and watched the small cruelties lengthen, spread.  

Regret sits with me now at every sun:  

I should have spoken sooner, called for stead.

Stanza 3  

Silence taught me how loneliness tastes cold;  

it taught me how the world can look the same.  

Yet from that hush a different music rolled—  

a faith that bends to mercy, not to blame.

Stanza 4  

I learn to read the lines that once were dim,  

to let the verses light the path I tread.  

Each wound becomes a map, each lesson hymn;  

the hurt is soil where gentler wisdom’s fed.

Stanza 5  

I will not be the silence I once kept;  

I will be voice and hand before the fall.  

I gather courage now where sorrow slept,  

and offer warmth so others hear the call.

Stanza 6  

My sorrow has a silver seam that shows  

a thin bright thread that mends what once was torn.  

Through it I see the shape of what I owe:  

to stand, to speak, to shelter those forlorn.

Stanza 7  

So let this light be more than consolation—  

a promise shaped by scripture, slow and sure.  

I carry what I learned as proclamation,  

that mercy grows and makes the wounded pure.