http://childpsychiatryassociates.com/treatment-team/debra-newman in the cracks of concrete (your
heart)
a flower un-
bidden bursts
defiant in its silence
a whisper of hope
against the
gray weight of
life’s relentless (crush)
it stands
fragile
yet (unbroken)
beauty insists.
Beneath The Eaves
Every spring they return,
to the place beneath my eaves.
In their absence, the porch is just a porch.
With their arrival, it becomes something more.
They weave on beak and toe,
constructing a space where once there was none,
filling the emptiness with purpose,
transforming the void with meaning.
Morning spills over their work,
each branch a testament to persistence,
each dusk a gentle completion.
When they leave,
the space beneath the eaves is just space again,
waiting for their return,
to be made whole once more.
