In the Garden of Words

Poetry is never born at the mere movement of a pen. It is not ink spilled carelessly, but rather a quiet awakening. It emerges when the heart, once turbulent, finds stillness—a tranquil harbor where words can take root.

Only when the soul rests deeply, like a weary traveler finding solace beneath ancient trees, do the seeds of verse begin to sprout. They push through the fertile soil of our emotions, seeking light, air, and the tender touch of inspiration.

Beauty, my dear friend, is woven into the fabric of existence. It dances in the dew-kissed petals of morning flowers, whispers through rustling leaves, and paints the sky with hues of sunset. But to truly see it, one needs the eye of a poet—an inner lens that transforms the ordinary into the extraordinary.

Miracles abound, filling the heavens and the earth. They hide in the laughter of children, the scent of rain-soaked earth, and the warmth of a shared glance. The poet’s heart, attuned to these wonders, becomes a vessel—a chalice overflowing with wonder and gratitude.

And then, beloved, there is your presence. It is a magic that defies explanation. Fire may ignite the candle’s wick, but your silent presence kindles a different flame within me. It burns softly, illuminating the corridors of my soul, casting shadows that dance like verses on parchment.

So let us linger here, in this garden of words. Let us breathe in the fragrance of possibility, listen to the rustle of metaphors, and watch as syllables bloom into stardust. For poetry is not born in haste; it is nurtured by stillness, watered by wonder, and tended by the heart’s gentle hands.

Copyright ? Beatriz Esmer

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