Nothing but Promise Ahead of Us
Read more poetry by Britt Wolfe
Here—
in the soft geometry of our days,
where four small voices reverberate like lantern-light
against the architecture of our hearts—
we have built a life that feels less like chronology
and more like consecration.
Morning begins in a constellation of footsteps,
a choreography of mismatched socks and cereal bowls,
a sacred disarray that reminds us
that love is not a quiet cathedral
but a bustling, benevolent storm.
We move through its weather together—
you brewing coffee, me tying shoes,
the children orbiting us with the effortless trust
that only the deeply cherished can carry.
And still, somehow,
in the midst of this kaleidoscopic commotion,
joy finds us.
Not loudly—
but with the subtle certainty of dawn
pressing its forehead to the horizon
and whispering that it has arrived.
We are six hearts braided,
six lives threaded into one unbroken tapestry,
stitched with the tensile strength of laughter
and the kind of tenderness
that refuses to fracture under the weight of the world.
Our home hums with the symphony of becoming—
with crayons rolling off tabletops,
with the thunder of little feet learning courage,
with the soft exhale of two grown souls
rediscovering themselves
in the reflection of the tiny humans
who call them home.
And oh—
how the future opens for us,
not as a narrow corridor to tiptoe through,
but as an endless prairie of possibility,
spilling gold beneath our feet.
Each day stretches in front of us
like a ribbon we have not yet unspooled,
its edges glinting with everything we have not yet learned,
not yet lived,
not yet loved.
There is nothing but promise ahead of us—
not because life is easy,
or predictable,
or kind,
but because we are.
Because we rise,
steady and luminous,
carrying our children like torches through the dark—
because we hold each other
with the reverence of those who know
how rare it is
to find a harbour
in another human’s hands.
And so we walk forward—
six shadows merging into one,
six stories intertwining,
six small universes finding their gravity—
toward a horizon stitched in green and gold,
toward mornings not yet made,
toward the magnificent, unfinished miracle
of us.
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Poetry Anthologies by Britt Wolfe:
