Conviction

Belief is not a thunderclap,  

not a burst of fireworks,  

but a steady drip, drip, drip  

of water carving the stone.  

It is the way the sunrise  

learns to return each morning,  

how shadows stretch long  

then dissolve in patient light.  

I used to think belief  

was a single solid thing,  

a flag planted firm in soil,  

but now I see—it shifts.  

It bends like willow branches,  

reshapes like rivers pressing the earth,  

a continuous unfolding of layers,  

a quilt sewn by invisible hands.  

Lately, I am coming to believe  

in the tiny revolutions of kindness,  

in the songs my grandmother hummed,  

in the way love renews itself.  

Belief isn't final—it grows roots,  

branches outward, lifts its face

a tree that keeps reaching skyward,  

leaf after leaf, even in wind.