Genesis Six

Posted on September 21, 2026 by TaeHun Yoon 윤 태헌 尹 太憲

[Poem – As Reading the Bible]

When God Wept

The world had grown old.

Not old with wisdom,
but old with violence.

Human hands,
made to cultivate the earth,
had learned instead
to wound one another.

The earth was filled
with violence.

Not only in the fields,
not only in the streets,
but deep within
the human heart.

What began
as a garden
had become a place
where fear,
greed,
anger,
and power
multiplied like weeds.

And God looked upon
the world He had made.

God saw.

And God grieved.

Perhaps this is
one of the most difficult
truths in Genesis:

God can be hurt
by what we do
with the life
God has given us.

The Creator
was not distant.

The Eternal Worker
was not indifferent.

The One who had shaped
light and darkness,
sea and dry land,
trees and birds,
women and men—

looked upon creation
and saw
how far it had wandered
from love.

And the Scripture says
that God was sorry
that He had made humanity.

I pause here.

I cannot easily imagine
the heart of God
carrying such sorrow.

Perhaps it is the sorrow
of a parent
watching children
destroy one another.

Perhaps it is the sorrow
of a craftsman
seeing something beautiful
broken by careless hands.

Perhaps it is the sorrow
of love itself—

because only love
can grieve so deeply
over what has been lost.

Yet even here,
in the darkest chapter,
one small light remains.

Noah.

Among the noise
of a violent generation,
there was one person
who still listened.

Noah walked with God.

Again,
the old words return:

to walk.

Not to conquer.

Not to possess.

Not to become powerful.

Simply—

to walk with God.

Perhaps Noah was not perfect.

Perhaps he was simply
willing to listen
when the world
had forgotten how.

And God spoke to him.

Build.

Build an ark.

Build a place
of refuge
in the middle
of a world
that no longer knew
how to make peace.

So Noah began.

Piece by piece.

Board by board.

Day after day.

Perhaps people laughed.

Perhaps they asked,
“What are you building?”

And Noah kept working.

There are times
when faith looks foolish
to the world.

There are times
when obedience
looks like building
something no one else
can yet see.

Noah built.

And the rain came.

Not as a simple storm,
but as a great undoing.

The waters rose.

The familiar world
disappeared beneath them.

The mountains vanished.
The fields disappeared.
The old boundaries
between earth and sea
were erased.

And I wonder—

was God angry?

Yes.

But was God only angry?

I do not think so.

Perhaps beneath
the judgment
was grief.

The grief
of a God
who loved the world
and watched it
destroy itself.

The flood
is not only a story
about water.

It is a story
about what happens
when violence
is allowed to grow
without restraint.

When human beings
forget that
every other person
also bears
the breath of God.

When power becomes
more important
than compassion.

When possession
becomes more important
than sharing.

When fear
becomes more powerful
than love.

And yet—

in the middle
of the waters,

there was an ark.

A small vessel
carrying life.

Animals.
A family.
Seeds of tomorrow.

A fragile wooden space
floating upon
an enormous uncertainty.

Perhaps faith
is sometimes like that.

We do not know
where the waters
will carry us.

We do not know
what will remain
when the storm is over.

We only know
that God has asked us
to build
something that protects life.

So we build.

We build homes
where children are safe.

We build churches
where strangers are welcomed.

We build communities
where the wounded
can breathe again.

We build bridges
where nations
have built walls.

We build peace
where others
are still preparing for war.

We build,
even when the sky
looks dark.

Because the work
of the Eternal Worker
has not ended.

The rain stopped.

The waters slowly withdrew.

And Noah waited.

Waiting is also
part of faith.

Sometimes God
does not ask us
to move.

Sometimes God asks us
to remain inside
the ark
until the waters
begin to fall.

Then Noah sent out
a raven.

Then a dove.

He waited again.

And finally,
the dove returned
with an olive leaf.

A small leaf.

Almost nothing.

Yet enough
to say:

The earth
is beginning again.

Again.

That word
has followed us
through Genesis.

Begin.

After Eden—

begin.

After Cain and Abel—

begin.

After generations
have passed—

begin.

And now,
after the waters—

begin again.

When Noah stepped
onto dry ground,
he did not enter
a perfect world.

The old wounds
had not disappeared.

Human weakness
had not disappeared.

The human heart
was still human.

Yet God gave
a promise.

Never again
would the earth
be destroyed
by such a flood.

And God placed
a bow in the clouds.

The rainbow.

A sign of covenant.

A bridge of colors
between heaven
and earth.

Perhaps the rainbow
is not merely
a beautiful thing
to look at.

Perhaps it is
God’s reminder:

I remember.

I remember
the world.

I remember
the waters.

I remember
the sorrow.

And still—

I choose
relationship.

I choose
covenant.

I choose
to remain
with you.

This is where
my soul becomes quiet.

Because I know
something about
beginning again.

I know that
the world is not
always gentle.

I know that
human beings
can carry both
extraordinary beauty
and terrible violence.

I know that
we sometimes
break what
we were created
to protect.

And still—

God does not
abandon the human story.

God continues
to work.

The Eternal Worker
takes up
the broken pieces.

Patiently.

Tenderly.

Again and again.

And perhaps
that is what
it means to be
a tenelach.

To remain
with God
when the world
is dark.

To listen
when others
have stopped listening.

To build
when others
are destroying.

To protect life
when violence
seems easier.

To wait
through the waters.

To watch
for the first
small leaf of hope.

And when it comes—

to begin.

With aging hands.

With an open heart.

With scars
that have not
completely disappeared.

With memories
of storms
we cannot forget.

And yet
with enough faith
to believe
that somewhere
beyond the clouds,
the light
is still waiting.

Genesis Six
is therefore not only
the story of a flood.

It is the story
of God’s grief.

God’s judgment.

God’s mercy.

God’s covenant.

And God’s refusal
to give up
on creation.

The waters rise.

The world trembles.

But God’s promise
remains.

And when the rainbow
appears,

I hear again
the ancient whisper:

Begin.

Not because
the world is perfect.

Not because
the wounds are gone.

Not because
we know what tomorrow
will bring.

But because
God is still here.

Still working.

Still walking.

Still remembering.

Still loving.

And still whispering
to every generation
that has survived
its own flood:

Begin.

This is the song
of my soul.

This is my way
of being with God—

as a tenelach,

a quiet companion
walking beside
the Eternal Worker,

with aging hands,
an open heart,

and a soul
still learning
how to build
an ark of hope
in the middle
of a troubled world.

And when the waters
finally begin to fall,

may I be ready
to step onto
new ground.

May I carry
something living
with me.

May I plant
something beautiful.

May I leave
behind
a world
a little gentler
than the one
I received.

And above me,
may the rainbow
remain—

a covenant
between heaven
and earth,

a promise
that even after
the longest storm,

God is not finished.

And God whispers:

Begin.

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Genesis Five

Posted on September 20, 2026 by TaeHun Yoon 윤 태헌 尹 太憲

[Poem – As Reading the Bible]

The Long Breath of Generations

And the days continued.

After Eden.
After the first wound.
After Cain and Abel,
after the earth had learned
the weight of human blood,

life did not stop.

It simply grew older.

Genesis Five is a long procession of names—

Adam,
Seth,
Enosh,
Kenan,
Mahalalel,
Jared,
Enoch,
Methuselah,
Lamech,
and Noah.

Names upon names.

Lives upon lives.

Years upon years.

And again and again
the ancient words return:

“And he died.”

Perhaps this is the quietest sorrow
in all of Genesis.

Not thunder.
Not war.
Not fire.

Only time.

A child is born.
A father grows old.
A son takes his place.
Another generation rises.

And then—

he dies.

The earth keeps turning.

The sun continues to rise.

The fields wait for another season.

Children become parents,
parents become memories,
and memories become stories
carried by those who come after us.

Genesis Five reminds me
that creation is not only
the miracle of beginning.

It is also
the mystery of continuing.

God breathes life into one generation,
and that life becomes a bridge
to another.

We do not live forever
in the body.

But something of us
travels onward—

in the hands we have held,
in the words we have spoken,
in the kindness we have given,
in the wounds we have healed,
and even in the questions
we have left unanswered.

Then the story pauses at Enoch.

Among all these names,
one sentence suddenly changes
the rhythm of death:

“Enoch walked with God.”

And then—

he was no more,
because God took him.

I linger here.

To walk with God.

Perhaps that is what a life truly means.

Not how many years
are written beside our name,

but how closely
we have walked
with the One
who gave us breath.

Enoch did not conquer death.

He simply walked.

Step by step.

Day by day.

Until his walking
became so deeply joined
to God’s walking
that the boundary between them
seemed to disappear.

Perhaps this is the secret
of growing old:

not merely counting the years
that remain,

but learning to walk more gently
with God through the years
we have been given.

Methuselah lived
longer than anyone else
named in the genealogy.

Yet even his long life
could not escape
the quiet sentence:

“And he died.”

Longevity is not eternity.

A hundred years
cannot hold forever.

But perhaps a life
does not become eternal
by becoming longer.

Perhaps it becomes eternal
by becoming deeper.

By becoming love.

By becoming blessing.

By becoming part
of the life of another.

And then comes Lamech,
and with him Noah—

a child born into a world
already carrying
the weight of its own brokenness.

His father names him Noah,
saying that he will bring relief
from the painful labor
of our hands.

And suddenly I hear again
the old whisper of God:

Begin.

Begin again.

Even after Eden.

Even after blood.

Even after generations
have passed into silence.

Begin.

For God is not finished
with the human story.

Genesis Five may look
like a genealogy,

but beneath the names
I hear a great human song—

the song of birth and death,
of fathers and children,
of passing and becoming,
of memory and hope.

It tells me
that every generation
is both an ending
and a beginning.

We receive a world
we did not create.

We inherit stories
we did not write.

We carry wounds
we did not cause.

And still—

we are given the sacred freedom
to add something beautiful
before we pass it on.

Perhaps this is
what it means to be human:

to receive life
as a gift,

to carry it faithfully
for a little while,

and then to place it
gently into the hands
of those who come after us.

This is Genesis Five
in the language of my soul:

a chapter about time,
about mortality,
about generations passing
like footsteps across the earth.

But beneath every passing name
I hear the same quiet truth:

God remembers.

God accompanies.

God continues.

And when my own name
is someday spoken
for the last time,

may it be enough
that I have walked with God—

with aging hands,
with an open heart,
with gratitude for the years,

and with the courage
to whisper, even at the edge
of my earthly journey:

Begin.

This is the song of my soul.

This is my way of being with God—

as a tenelach,
a quiet companion,

walking through the long generations
with an aging body
and an ever-awakening soul,

learning that life is not measured
only by how long we remain,

but by how deeply
we have loved,

how faithfully
we have walked,

and how much light
we have left behind.

And still—

God whispers:

Begin.

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Genesis Three

Posted on September 18, 2026 by TaeHun Yoon 윤 태헌 尹 太憲

[Poem – as reading the Bible]

In the cool of the morning, the garden breathed softly— a world still young, still unbroken, still shimmering with the quiet hope of God’s first whisper: Begin.

The man and the woman walked among the trees as workers of wonder, caretakers of the newborn earth. Their hands were unscarred, their hearts unburdened, their days a gentle rhythm of tending, naming, listening.

But even in paradise, there are shadows— not of evil, but of choice.

For love without freedom is only obedience, and God desired companionship, not puppets.

So the tree of knowing stood in the center, not as a trap, but as a question:

Will you trust Me even when you do not understand?

One morning, a voice entered the garden— soft, clever, curled like smoke around the woman’s thoughts. It did not shout. Temptation rarely does.

It simply asked: “Is God holding something back?”

Her heart trembled. The fruit glowed. The question grew. And in a moment that felt both small and enormous, she reached. She tasted. She handed the fruit to the man she loved. He tasted too.

And the world shifted.

Not shattered. Not ruined. But changed— like a tool dropped on stone, like a hinge bent slightly, like a seed cracked open before it is ready.

Suddenly they saw their own vulnerability— the fragile truth that they were not gods, but dust and breath woven together.

They hid, not from punishment, but from the unbearable weight of being known.

God walked into the garden in the cool of the day, as He always did— not with thunder, but with tenderness.

He called their names like a father searching for two children who have wandered too far.

“Where are you?”

Not because He did not know, but because they needed to hear themselves answer.

They stepped from the trees, hearts trembling, hands shaking, souls heavy with the first sorrow ever felt by human beings.

And God— the Eternal Craftsman, the patient Worker— did not abandon them. He did not erase them. He did not unmake them.

He simply began the long work of teaching them how to live outside the garden.

He clothed them with His own hands— a gesture of mercy, a sign that even in exile they were still His children, still His tenelach, still companions of the Eternal who walks beside the broken as faithfully as He walks beside the whole.

The garden closed behind them, but the world opened ahead— a world of labor, of struggle, of sorrow, of beauty, of small victories, of stubborn screws and unfinished rooms, of gardens that must be planted with sweat and hope.

And God whispered once more: Begin.

For creation did not end with Eden’s gate. It moved outward— into fields, into cities, into hearts that rise again after saying, “I cannot,” and then, after one long breath, “Perhaps I can.”

This is Genesis Three in the language of my soul: a story not of failure, but of becoming.

Not of punishment, but of growth. Not of abandonment, but of God walking with us through the long, difficult road of being human.

This is the song of my soul. This is my way of being with God— as a tenelach, a quiet companion with aging hands and an open heart learning, still, how to begin.

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Genesis Two

Posted on September 17, 2026 by TaeHun Yoon 윤 태헌 尹 太憲

[Poem – As Reading the Bible]

When the first dawn finished its long climb over the newborn world, God rested— not in weariness, but in wonder. Creation stood before Him like a child taking its first breath.

And from that holy stillness God shaped a garden— a quiet place, a place of beginning, a place where the Eternal could walk slowly among trees that had never known wind.

He planted the garden with His own hands, hands older than time, hands gentle enough to lift dust and call it life. Every leaf carried a small shimmer of His breath.

In the center He placed two trees— one of life, one of knowing— not as traps, but as invitations to trust, to wonder, to walk with Him as a tenelach, a soul‑friend.

Then God formed a human being from the earth— not from stone, not from fire, but from the soft soil that remembers rain. He breathed into the dust, and the dust awakened as a living soul.

The man opened his eyes and saw God not as thunder, not as distant power, but as Presence— near enough to touch the heart without touching the skin.

God placed him in the garden not as a ruler, but as a worker, a caretaker, a craftsman of creation. For even in Eden, labor was a blessing— the first prayer offered by human hands.

“Begin,” God said. And the man began— naming creatures, watering soil, learning the quiet language of leaves and rivers. He discovered that tending the world was a way of tending his own soul.

But God saw that solitude is too heavy for a single heart. Even in paradise, a human being needs another human being to share the trembling beauty of existence.

So God shaped a companion— not from the earth, but from the man’s own side, so they would remember that they belonged to one another. She rose like dawn from his sleep, and he knew her as bone of his bone, breath of his breath, heart of his heart.

Together they walked through the garden, two souls learning how to be human, how to be alive, how to be with God as tenelach— friends of the Eternal who listened for His footsteps in the evening wind.

They worked. They rested. They loved. They wondered. They learned the holiness of ordinary days.

And God watched them with quiet joy, for creation was not complete until two human hearts learned to walk together beneath the enormous sky.

This is Genesis Two in the language of my soul— a story of beginnings, of companionship, of labor as prayer, of love as revelation, of God walking slowly beside His children in the cool of the day.

This is the song of my soul. This is my way of being with God— as a tenelach, a quiet companion with aging hands and an open heart.

  • Tenelach (Irish) — a state of deep and mysterious communion with wind, water, trees, and the whole earth, in which a person can truly hear the song of the land. [Literal meaning] “A profound spiritual connection with nature.”
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Psalm 23

Posted on September 16, 2026 by TaeHun Yoon 윤 태헌 尹 太憲

[Poem – As Reading the Bible]

— The Shepherd Within

The Lord is my shepherd.

I am not alone.

When the road becomes
too long,

when my hands grow tired
of carrying
what tomorrow may bring,

God leads me
toward stillness.

Not toward
a life without trouble,

but toward
a quiet place
where my soul
can breathe again.

Green fields
open before me.

Still waters
receive the sky.

And for a moment,
I remember—

I do not have
to run.

My soul is restored
not by possessing more,

but by becoming still
enough
to receive.

God leads me
along paths
I cannot always understand,

paths of righteousness,

paths where
my feet learn again
how to walk
with trust.

Sometimes
the path enters
the valley.

The valley
of shadow.

The valley
where familiar voices
become distant,

where night
comes early,

where I cannot see
the road ahead.

Yet I will not fear.

For You are with me.

Not somewhere
beyond the darkness,

but here—

beside me,

within me,

your presence
walking
at the pace
of my trembling heart.

Your rod
and your staff—

not weapons
of domination,

but signs
that I am not
forgotten,

that when I stumble,
You remain near,

that when I wander,
You call me home.

Then,
in the presence
of everything
that has frightened me,

You prepare
a table.

Not a fortress.

A table.

Bread
where there was hunger.

Wine
where there was sorrow.

A place
where enemies
can no longer
define the boundaries
of my heart.

You anoint my head
with oil.

You remind me
that my life
is more than
its wounds,

more than
its failures,

more than
the years
that have passed.

My cup overflows.

Not because
I possess everything,

but because
I have learned
to receive
what is enough.

Surely goodness
and mercy
will follow me—

not because
I have earned them,

but because
they belong
to the nature
of God.

They will follow me
through morning
and evening,

through youth
and old age,

through laughter
and tears,

through every
departure
and return.

And I will dwell
in the house
of the Lord

not only
at the end
of my journey,

but here,

now,

in every breath
that opens
toward love,

in every stranger
I welcome,

in every hand
I extend,

in every moment
when fear
loosens its grip
and grace
becomes possible.

The Shepherd
has never
left the road.

The Shepherd
walks with me.

Through green fields.

Through still waters.

Through the valley.

Through the table.

Through the long
and beautiful
mystery of life.

And when my journey
finally becomes
a whisper,

I will not be afraid.

For the One
who walked
beside me

will still be there—

leading me home,

not into darkness,

but into

the house
where love
has no ending.

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Genesis One

Posted on September 14, 2026 by TaeHun Yoon 윤 태헌 尹 太憲

[Poem – As Reading the Bible]

– “This is the song of my soul. This is my way of being with God — as a tenelach, walking where the Word breathes.”

In the beginning,

before clocks, before breath, before the first trembling thought, there was only God— a vast, listening presence holding the silence like a cupped hand.

And into that silence God whispered: Begin.

Light rose like a shy visitor entering a dark room. It did not shout. It simply appeared— soft, obedient, as if it had been waiting for centuries to be called by name.

God saw the light and smiled, for even the smallest brightness is enough to start a world.

Then God separated the quiet waters— lifting one into the sky, letting the other rest upon the earth. A gentle dividing, not a violent tearing. Creation, even then, was an act of tenderness.

And God whispered again: Begin.

The land rose from the deep, slowly, like an old man standing from prayer. Mountains stretched, valleys bowed, rivers found their paths as if guided by an unseen hand.

Trees appeared— first as thoughts, then as seeds, then as green breath reaching upward. Grass unfolded like a soft hymn. Flowers opened like small prayers.

And God saw that the world was learning to breathe.

Then came the lights— the great lantern of day, the gentle lamp of night, and the scattered sparks that keep lonely travelers company. God placed them with the care of a craftsman tightening two stubborn screws, making sure the sky would hold.

And God whispered: Begin.

The waters stirred with living things— silver flashes, quiet swimmers, creatures who knew how to praise God without words.

The air filled with wings— some beating wildly, some gliding like prayers carried on wind.

And God saw that movement was a kind of worship.

Then the earth brought forth animals— gentle ones, fierce ones, small ones who hide in the grass, and great ones who walk like mountains.

And finally— in the cool of the day— God shaped a human being from the dust and from His own breath. A creature of earth and eternity. A worker. A maker. A soul capable of love, regret, gratitude, and wonder.

A tenelach— a friend of God.

And God said: Begin.

Not once, but every morning. Every breath. Every trembling attempt to repair something broken. Every poem written in the quiet hours. Every act of kindness offered without applause.

Creation was not finished in seven days. It is still happening— in gardens, in workshops, in kitchens, in hearts that rise again after saying, “I cannot,” and then, after one long breath, “Perhaps I can.”

This is Genesis in the language of my soul: God begins the world, and then invites us to continue it.

To repair. To plant. To write. To love. To become.

This is the song of my soul. This is my way of being with God— as a tenelach, a quiet companion walking beside the Eternal with aging hands and an open heart.

  • Tenelach (Irish) — a state of deep and mysterious communion with wind, water, trees, and the whole earth, in which a person can truly hear the song of the land. [Literal meaning] “A profound spiritual connection with nature.”
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9.11

Posted on September 14, 2026 by TaeHun Yoon 윤 태헌 尹 太憲

On Rosh Hashanah, wake-up calls by Shofar
the old year opens
its hidden door.

Along the road,
I hear no footsteps— only the breath of frost
moving through the trees.

Twenty-five years ago,
one morning,
the sky opened its wound.

I watched the Twin Towers
fall from the television screen, and for a moment
the earth itself
seemed to lose
its memory.

Thousands of souls
descended through the light, not left,
not right,
not man,
not woman,
not young,
not old,

but simply human— falling together
into the mystery
of dust.

How slowly
a life can disappear. A few seconds. A few days. And then
six feet beneath the earth, where even a name
becomes a whisper.

My mind became
a crystal bowl. Nothing moved inside it. No cry. No shout. Only a silence
too sacred
to break.

Perhaps grief
has no language. Perhaps the soul,
when struck by such darkness,
becomes transparent.

And from the dust
the crosses began to rise— millions of small lights, until the dead
were no longer beneath us

but above us, scattered through the night
like stars
remembering their names.

Since then,
9.11 has followed me
like a hidden sacrament, a holy mystery
along the winter road.

Every Rosh Hashanah,
I walk toward it again. The mist is gone. The warmth is gone. Only frost
touches the skin.

Yet beneath the frozen road,
something unseen
is still moving— a breath, a prayer, a thousand-year-old silence
becoming light.

And I wonder: perhaps the dead
did not fall from the towers. Perhaps
they fell through us, into the deepest place
where all human borders disappear— and became stars

so that we,
still walking, might never forget
how fragile
the light is.

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“Poem” — Becoming

Posted on September 6, 2026 by TaeHun Yoon 윤 태헌 尹 太憲

Writing a poem

is not writing.

It is waiting

without waiting.

Let thought fall away.

Let yourself fall away.

Enter emptiness.

Noise becomes rhythm.

Rhythm becomes seeing.

One thing.

Only one.

The world gathers

into a single word—

flies, returns,

becomes meaning.

In the stillness,

I lose myself.

Then finally,

I am myself.

The poem flows out.

I simply follow.

No more in or out

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“Beyond the Border”

Posted on September 6, 2026 by TaeHun Yoon 윤 태헌 尹 太憲

Beyond the boundary—

her words let me flow outward,

then return as myself.

– After listening to the message of Pastor, Misti Dawn McCreary

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“Against the Falling Water”

Posted on September 5, 2026 by TaeHun Yoon 윤 태헌 尹 太憲

Last night
sleep came in three small rivers—
an hour, perhaps two,
then waking,
then returning
to the dark between breaths.

Outside,
summer burned at ninety-eight,
feeling like one hundred five.

My wife said,
“Stay inside.
The heat can wait.
The weeds can wait.”

But something in the body knows
what the mind cannot explain.

So I dressed for the furnace—
boots, gloves, long sleeves—
and stepped into the living fire.

Not to prove I am young.
Not to defeat the sun.
Only to remember
that I am alive.

Every twenty minutes:
water, shade, breath.
Then rise again.

Until thought disappeared—
no yesterday,
no tomorrow,
no age,
no name.

Only earth,
tool,
breath,
heartbeat,
sun—

and sweat falling.

One drop.
Then another.
Then another.

And suddenly
the falling water taught me:

Everything falls—
rain, leaves, night,
years,
the body itself.

Yet within the falling
something rises.

Water descends.
Consciousness ascends.

My knees tremble.
My back speaks in pain.
My shirt grows heavy
with the weight of the day.

Still, somewhere within,
a small voice whispers:

Not yet.
Not yet.

Do not mistake
the weakening of the body
for the death of the spirit.

Do not make
your limits
your home.

A little less walking,
a little less reaching,
a little less wonder—

and we may begin
to practice death
before death arrives.

So I go outside.

Not to become young again,
but to remain awake.

The tree does not count its years.
The wind does not fear its seasons.
The earth does not refuse
another seed.

Rain becomes river.
River becomes sea.
Sea becomes cloud.

Nothing is lost.
Everything changes form.

Perhaps I am changing too.

I am seventy-seven.

The body knows
the downward road.

I accept its gravity.

But I will not
walk downhill
in consciousness.

Let the hair turn white.
Let the knees slow.
Let sleep come broken.

But let the heart remain awake.

Let the spirit rise—
slowly, quietly—
against gravity,
against heat,
against fear,
against the temptation to stop.

Perhaps this is old age:

not becoming less alive,
but discovering
a different youth—

a youth made of wonder,
courage,
gratitude,
and beginning again.

Tonight,
perhaps sleep will come once.
Perhaps three times.

It does not matter.

I have listened
to the falling water.

I have felt sweat
become prayer.

I have heard
my old body
speaking to the earth.

And between
the downward pull of gravity
and the upward movement
of consciousness,

I heard a voice
almost smaller than silence:

You are still here.
Rise.
Begin.

So let the water fall.
Let the years fall.
Let the body fall gently
toward the earth.

But let consciousness rise—

slowly, quietly,
like a single drop
climbing back toward the cloud.

To fall
without surrendering.

To bend
without breaking.

To rest
without giving up.

To keep flowing
against the falling water
until the last light
finds its way home.

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