Preserving Light

Not all revolutions shake the earth,
Some quietly tend gardens
In concrete jungles.
Some whisper stories
When the world screams silence.

We plant these small defiances
Like seeds in winter soil —
Not to make spring come faster,
But to remember what blooming feels like
When frost threatens memory.

I read banned books by candlelight
Not to change minds,
But to keep mine alight.
I sing old songs in new darkness
Not to part shadows,
But to remember my voice.

Some days, the act of gentleness
Is warfare against a hardening world.
The simple choice to remain soft,
When everything begs to calcify,
Becomes its own battleground.

We do these things —
These small, brave things —
Like lighting matches in hurricanes.
Not because one match will calm the storm,
But because we must remember
What warmth feels like.

We hold these rituals of self
Against the tide of transformation:
Breaking bread with strangers,
Feeding stray cats,
Dancing badly to good music,
Believing in tomorrow
When today counsels despair.

Each act a tiny anchor,
Each choice a thread connecting
What we were
To what we refuse to become.
Not to bend the universe,
But to keep it from bending us
Into shapes we cannot bear to wear.

For sometimes victory lies
Not in changing the world’s heart,
But in keeping our own
From turning to stone.