An Offering of Tenderness

What the Ground Knows

by Ali Warters

Sometimes the body still leans toward the light,
even after the storm.
Not to forget—
just to keep growing.

Anger can rise like spring sap,
fast and green.
Not always graceful,
but honest.

Some aches burn clean.
Others hover—
heat without flame,
love that lingers long after it's gone quiet.

The ground doesn’t ask you to understand.
It holds you anyway.
Even when the air thickens.
Even when you thought you were in the clouds—
lifted, clear—
but it turns out
you were inside the fog.

Perspective comes like a blade.
Not cruel.
Just sharp enough to part the weight.

And underneath:
the sky.
the thread.
the next breath.

This isn’t a map.
It’s not even a path.
Only an offering—
laid gently across your table.

Take what you need.
Leave the rest.
Either way,
you’re already beginning again.