The dusk does not apologize
for the light it swallows whole,
nor does the seed mourn
the shattering of its shell.
There is a hush between heartbeats,
where the world forgets its name
and we are breathed anew.
What ends is not lost—
only folded into mystery,
the way autumn hands its gold to the ground.
We think we are breaking,
but it is the chrysalis that splits,
not the soul.
Grief is real—
but so is the grace beneath it.
Trust the crumble.
Trust the fall.
The sacred moves most deeply
in the dark.
And when the new light comes,
as it always does,
it will rise not as a stranger
but as a remembering.
You were never meant
to stay the same.
Let go.
Be remade.
© Sabrina Santa Clara, 2025