Stewardship Poem by Henrietta Ezegbe

These days, the heart believes again,
not wildly, not recklessly,
but with the quiet certainty
that comes from surviving long enough
to recognize the finish line.

Stepping out of survival,
armor is laid down where it once cut deep.
What remains is stewardship,
a patient devotion to becoming.
This is what a goddess era looks like,
less firestorm, more embers,
kept alive through the crystalline snow,
soft, hushed, almost sacred.

Winter still insists on its greys,
on breath turned brittle in the cold,
on days that arrive heavy and uninvited.
Some mornings rise resilient,
spine aligned, hope intact.
Other days dissolve into tears,
lonesome thoughts echoing through the frost.

Yet even here, life listens.
Roots remember themselves
beneath frozen ground.
Hope does not vanish in winter,
it deepens.

Not broken by the weather,
regardless of how low the plunge goes,
its language is being learned.
And the path continues forward,
not rushed, not abandoned,
trusting the light being stewarded
already knows how to return.