Here. This is Yours.

For the One Who Lingers

I am the spark

that arrives without asking.

The eternal flame

burns in Kildare

smokeless, steady, alive.

A line forms on the page,

a thought rises in the quiet.

I whisper softly,

Here.

This is yours.

I am the warmth 

that holds.

Hands pressed to the chest of grief,

water pooling in the sacred well,

cloths tied to trees

as prayers for healing.

Soft murmurs ripple

through the space between us.

I say,

Here.

This is yours.

I am the forge

that bends the raw.

Iron softens beneath my fire,

wood curls into vessel,

bones hardened, shaped, refined.

Pain becomes strength.

Raw becomes radiant.

Here.

This is yours.

I am the dawn

that rises in gold.

Threads of heat

between fingers,

morning spilling over hills,

lips that speak truths remembered,

possibility threading through the world.

I offer:

Here.

This is yours.

I am spark, warmth, forge, dawn.

I am Brigid.

I am here.

And when the world leans close,

I am the fire that warms you,

the water that steadies you,

the hands that shape,

the light that always rises.

Here.

This is yours. 

Author's Note

Sparked from the moments that linger, this piece rose like an ember finding breath. I let it shape itself in its own rhythm, a quiet flame, a small blessing, something warm placed gently in open hands.

Reviews

[Brandon Houser]

Very powerful imagery here. And very comforting. A deep and meaningful read. You are really good at creating worlds with your prose.

[Curly Grace]

Thank you, Brandon. I’m glad the world of it opened for you, a little hearth-light in the dark.