The Quiet Line

In the garden of morning,

where the dew settles like whispers,

I find my edges, soft yet firm,

as the earth meets the sky.

A robin calls from the oak,

reminding me of the gentle art of saying no,

a boundary as natural as the river’s course,

winding, deliberate,

through the patient land.

Here, in the stillness,

I build my walls with care,

not to keep out the world,

but to hold close what is tender within me,

a small sanctuary of peace,

where the heart can rest,

unfettered by the pull of others’ desires.

I learn from the wild geese,

who fly together, yet apart,

each knowing its place in the sky,

each honouring the space that keeps them aloft.

And so, I too, shall keep my distance,

not from love,

but from the weight of it,

when it presses too hard against the boundaries

I have drawn in the sand.

For in these lines,

I find my freedom,

and in this freedom,

I find myself,

whole, unbroken,

a quiet flame burning brightly in the dusk.

Per Norrgren