Dear one,

 
Some things are written once…
 and then return later,
 quietly recognising themselves.
Eight years ago, a line arrived:

Make of yourself a nest that love can rest in.

It did not need improving. It did not ask to be explained.

It simply waited.

Perhaps that is what some words do.

 They find us early… and then remain nearby,

 until we are ready to live them more fully.

A nest is not a performance.

 It is not something fragile, or decorative.

It is made slowly.

 Gathered, shaped, tended.

A place of enough warmth that something living

 might choose to stay.

And love, when it comes… does not demand perfection.

 Only space.

If we are patient enough, and gentle enough with what we are becoming—

we may find that what we once wrote

 has been quietly shaping us

 all along.

☕

Left without comment. The cup beside it still warm.