Elegy for Nuance

I did not sharpen language into a blade,
nor wield it as a gate to keep others out.
I found it—
layered, rhythmic, alive—
a quiet cathedral built of syllables,
echoing with thought.

And I stood there,
not above anyone,
just… listening.

But somewhere along the way,
appreciation became accusation.
Curiosity, a crime.
As if delight in complexity
must carry the stain of exclusion,
as if loving the architecture of a sentence
means I wish to tear down another’s voice.

I am told to soften,
to simplify,
to apologize for finding beauty
in the way words stretch their legs—
long, winding phrases
that wander and return
like a well-told story.

But I do not love them
because they are better.
I love them because they are alive.

Because they ask something of me—
attention, patience, presence—
and in return,
they give me the quiet thrill
of understanding.

Is that arrogance?
To lean into meaning?
To savor the cadence of a thought
fully formed?

I have never mistaken clarity for superiority,
nor depth for dominance.
I have never believed that language belongs
to one voice, one color, one class.

And yet—
I feel the sideways glance,
the careful correction,
the unspoken suggestion
that I must dim my mind
to prove my heart is open.

But my heart has always been open.
It is precisely why I listen—
to poetry, to music, to voices unlike mine—
why I linger in the spaces
where meaning is not handed over easily,
but discovered.

Do not ask me to feel guilt
for loving thought.
Do not confuse reverence
with rejection.

I will not shrink my wonder
to fit a narrower world.

Because there is room—
there has always been room—
for every voice,
every rhythm,
every way of speaking truth.

And mine, too,
deserves to exist
without apology.

© Susie Stiles-Wolf