My father speaks in smaller ways,
not always through his voice,
but in the doors he held for us,
the sacrifices, quiet choices.
He wore exhaustion like a coat
and carried storms alone,
just so our little world could feel
safe, steady, warm as home.
And though he rarely said “I love you,”
we understood somehow,
because love was in the life he built
with tired hands and bowed brow.
A Shopify developer and freelancer who enjoys creating beautiful online experiences by day and writing poetry by heart. I believe both code and poetry are different ways of telling a story.
The wind runs fingers through the trees, A whispered song upon the breeze, Where rivers stitch the earth...
The road beyond the distant hill, Calls softly, calm and still. With every step, a story grows, Through...