Yet
Read more poetry by Britt Wolfe
I am not who I am meant to be—
yet.
I am aware of the gap.
I feel it in the pause
between intention and execution,
in the ache of unfinished sentences,
in the way my hands still hesitate
before they reach.
But yet
is not a failure.
It is a corridor.
It is a breath held
with purpose.
The only way
I am not
becomes permanent
is if I quit.
The only way
I can’t
hardens into truth
is if I stop moving
while it’s still forming.
And I won’t.
Because there is a small creature
inside me—
tender, watchful,
eyes too large for the world
and always wet with hope.
She believes me
when I speak.
She has survived
on promises alone
before.
So I am careful
with what I tell her.
I do not say soon.
I do not say someday.
I say still.
Still trying.
Still learning.
Still reaching forward
even when progress
feels indistinguishable
from standing still.
I tell her
we are allowed to be unfinished.
We are allowed to arrive
out of sequence.
I tell her
growth does not require
speed—
only continuation.
And I promise her this,
clearly,
without negotiation:
I will not quit.
Not on the days
when the distance feels insulting.
Not when doubt rehearses
its old, convincing arguments.
Not when exhaustion
pretends to be truth.
I will carry us forward
even if the pace
is barely visible.
Because yet
is alive.
It breathes.
It waits.
And as long as I am still here,
still becoming,
still choosing movement
over surrender—
yet
remains
an opening,
not an ending.
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Poetry Anthologies by Britt Wolfe:
