Compassion

First, in my quiet depths,

where no eye can see,

my heart does its slow work—

like magnetic fields gathering

in the earth's hidden core,

drawing scattered fragments

into alignment.

This inward tending,

this patient cultivation

of tenderness toward the wounded parts

of myself, the brittle edges

I've learned to soften

with understanding instead of judgment.

And then, without announcement,

without effort or intention,

something luminous begins to rise—

The way aurora borealis

emerges from invisible forces,

solar wind meeting atmosphere

in a dance too beautiful

to be contained by darkness.

My compassion becomes visible

before I've spoken a word,

before I've moved to help—

it shimmers in the space around me,

green and gold ribbons

of light that others feel

in their bones, a warmth

that makes them turn toward me

like flowers following the sun.

This is the mystery:

how the deep work I do in solitude

becomes the gift that illuminates

not just my own small corner

of the world, but reaches

across the vast night sky

of human need,

painting hope in colors that have

no names, only the recognition

of being truly seen.

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