Upon the Altar

I lay myself before you, still and bare,
a flower cut and placed with trembling hands,
not asking for the light, not seeking where
the wind might take me, bound by love's commands.

I have no crown, no voice, no grand design,
only this quiet offering I bring —
a life made yours, each broken part of mine
surrendered like a bird that cannot sing.

Yet even silence laid at sacred feet
is heard by those who kneel and truly know
that love is not in words, but in the sweet
surrender of the self, the letting go.

So here I am, Your flower on the stone.
Take what remains. I am no longer my own.

The Stranger at the table

I used to walk through days that felt my own,
where mornings came with weight I understood,
where every choice I made was carved in stone,
and life moved forward, quietly, as it should.

But years have bent the road I thought I knew,
and left me standing where two pathways meet,
with faces in the distance, blurred and few,
and hours full of questions, incomplete.

Yet maybe this is where the living starts —
not in the knowing, but the open hand,
not in the certainty of mapped-out charts,
but learning how to walk on shifting sand.

The future waits, a stranger, calm and still.
Perhaps I'll trust it. Perhaps, in time, I will.