At Life's Edge Poem by Henrietta Ezegbe

Longer than named
she stood at the edge of life
waiting for permission
that never came.

Silence was deemed failure.
Stillness, lost.
The slow work of becoming
was called falling behind.

Milestones appeared
like doors
that did not open.

Her voice lowered.
Candles dimmed.

But time
was not concerned
with appearances.

What looked like wandering
was root.
What looked like emptiness
was architecture
quietly rising.

Somewhere between
long nights
and stubborn mornings
the search ended.

Not with triumph.
With recognition.

Nothing
had been missing.

Only room.

Now she stands
not finished
not perfected
but whole.

Not because the world
finally applauded
but because she stopped waiting
for its agreement.

Tonight
the candles are not hidden.

They burn openly.

Flame
needing no explanation.

The wish is no longer rescue.

Only this:

life
returning
to the cup
once thought empty.

She drinks.