Eden
She came like a hush before the first light,
a promise so small it trembled
beneath the weight of its own becoming.
No thunder, no trumpet,
just the slow unfurling of a new name
in the language of breath and wonder.
The world tilted,
as if to make room for her.
And I—
who had lived so long among ashes—
found my hands remembering how to hold dawn again.
What is grace, if not this?
A return to softness after ruin,
a beginning that doesn’t erase what came before
but rewrites it in gentler ink.
There are no halos here,
no borrowed light—
only the small, extraordinary brightness
of something that was never meant to stay hidden.
She is not a miracle.
She is proof
that the world still makes them.
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Poetry Anthologies by Britt Wolfe:
