She enters, and the room forgets its air,
A hush of golden light surrounds her there.
Men turn to watch; their practiced words depart—
Yet none can see the weather in her heart.
She’s loved by many, still she walks alone,
Through rooms that echo with the names she’s known.
Loss leaves its fingerprints on every door;
The past comes softly, then it asks for more.
Some mornings, even sunlight feels too far;
Her thoughts crowd close, a restless, tangled jar.
She tries to rest, to let the old days cease,
To teach her weary mind the shape of peace.
But beauty is not armor, charm no cure;
A heart can shine and still be bruised and sore.
Let her be more than the eyes that stay—
A whole, brave soul, still finding her own way.
And though the past may call her by its name,
She need not answer, need not feed its flame.
Contentment may arrive by inches, slow—
A quieter breath, a tide beneath the ocean’s flow.
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