poetry and reflection

The Hollow Breath

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

 

“Walls remember even when we forget.”

There is a breath behind the wall,
steady,
unforgiving.

It doesn’t belong to anyone you can see,
but it belongs here,
and it remembers.

The air bends with it,
timbers strain against it,
like the house itself
is carrying secrets too heavy for its beams.

A hollow breath is not empty,
it is filled with what was never spoken,
pressed tight,
compressed into the bones of the room.

You lean closer,
and realize it isn’t just breath.
It is waiting.
It is watching.
It is daring you to hear it fully.

-Kerri-Elizabeth-

Do you hear it, the breath behind the door? What if it’s closer than you thought? Is the door a person or place?

The Second Veil

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

“Complexity wears more than one mask.”

It’s easy to believe that once the veil is lifted, the story is done. The mask removed, the lie exposed, the end. But the truth is crueler, more complex. One veil rarely hides alone. Pull it back and another waits, patient, layered, almost mocking in its persistence.

Every revelation comes with its own sting. Relief mixes with dread: relief that one falsehood has been seen, dread that it might not be the last. The dance is endless. Shadows step forward, only to retreat behind new curtains.

Healing doesn’t mean tearing them all down in one reckless rush. Healing is learning to see the veil for what it is, to acknowledge its existence without letting it choke you. To know that deception thrives in layers, and each one you face makes you less blind than before.

Still, the temptation is real: to rip them all away, to demand full truth at any cost. But truth has its own pace. And sometimes the slow unraveling is the only way to survive it.


But what if cutting the thread isn’t enough? What if another hand waits in the dark, with a another surprise before dawn?

-Kerri-Elizabeth-

The Map the Tide Left Behind

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

Every wave redraws the shoreline, leaving quiet instructions in its wake.

When the water finally pulled back, it did not return the world as it was. The shore had shifted ,lines carved where none had been before, sand pressed into patterns that would not wash away with the next tide.

It’s easy to think of waves as destroyers, but they are also cartographers. They leave maps in the debris, in the placement of stones, in the curve of driftwood that marks the farthest reach of the flood.

If you stand still long enough, you begin to read it ,the way the water circled here, the way it slammed straight through there, the places it spared without reason. The patterns are not for beauty; they are for understanding.

There is no rushing this kind of knowledge.

You trace the edges of what has changed, your feet sinking into new ground that has already decided what it will hold and what it will never keep again.

And in those moments, you see it clearly: the map is not for finding your way back. It is for showing you the way forward, through a landscape you would never have recognized before the tide touched it.

~Kerri-Elizabeth~

This series follows the slow work of storms and tides, charting the spaces they leave behind. Tomorrow, the current turns toward what it means to rebuild in the quiet , not as it was before, but as it can be now.

Glistening Grace

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

“Some mornings whisper before they sing yet still, they rise, and so do we.”

There’s something about the way light rests on the water before the day knows its name

a stillness that speaks louder than certainty.

The sun doesn’t ask for permission to rise it simply does.

And in its quiet emergence through the softened veil of clouds,

it reminds us that we too can arrive gently,

without a plan, without an answer just with presence.

This morning, I watched light kiss the water’s skin,

thousands of glistening reflections of sunlight dancing like diamonds on the surface,

each one a reflection of something waiting to be seen

something already within me, quietly asking to be noticed.

Sometimes, we don’t know what the day will bring.

We don’t have to.

The sky still opens.

The sun still climbs.

The water still glistens.

Gratitude isn’t in the knowing

it’s in the noticing.

And today, I noticed…

the way breath feels like a beginning,

the way stillness can sing,

the way the soul thirsts for light

just as the body thirsts for water.

So drink, dear one

drink from the sky’s unfolding,

from the well of your own quiet joy.

Let your cells and your spirit both be nourished.

Let the day meet you in your softness.

Let love rise with you, like the sun.

~Kerri-Elizabeth~