“The Quiet Grace”

In gardens where the roses wait,
And dawn arrives a touch too late,
There walks a soul, with measured pace—
A bearer of the quiet grace.

She does not chide the moon for time,
Nor bid the silent clock to chime.
She watches tides both rise and fall,
And finds her strength in not at all.

For patience is no idle hand,
But wisdom’s firm and gentle stand.
It does not yield to fretful haste,
Nor lets the ripest fruit go waste.

The foolish race, the proud demand—
Yet she will sit, and understand.
That storms do pass, and tears do dry,
And seeds must sleep before they try.

So crown her not in gold or fame,
But in the stillness of her name.
For in her calm, the wise shall see
The art of letting life just be.

—LARH.