I let the wind decide too long,

bent my path to fit another’s song,

called the drifting patience,

called the waiting grace.

But grace was never meant to mean

losing sight of what I’d seen 

the clear and quiet knowing

of the seeds I meant for growing.

So I return, not with a fight,

but with a stillness, steady, right.

Each choice a breath. Each breath a choosing.

Nothing wasted. Nothing losing.

What I built was never borrowed 

It was mine to grow, mine to steward.

I plant what’s mine to plant today.

I walk the path I meant to lay.

Not rushing forward, not undone 

just rooted here, and moving on.

Dr. Tawfiq Abu