✨A Poem✨
She will always love him—
not the man he became,
but the boy from the backroads,
with red dust on his boots
and wonder in his eyes.
She met him when his heart was split in two.
Before time folded their names
into different journeys,
different landscapes.
She, a woman of the bayou—
barefoot and gifted,
born to read the wind
and speak to the water.
She danced with ghosts
beneath weeping moss,
waiting on stars to align
or maybe just on herself.
He, a son of the Southern red earth,
relocated to the hush of evergreen winds.
He found a new life there,
a new love too—
the kind she used to dream about
while steeping herbs
and whispering to owls in the dark.
And still, she smiled.
Truly smiled.
Because love, real love,
doesn’t curse the wind
for blowing someone home—
even if it isn’t yours.
She wants him happy.
Wants him full.
Wants him to hold someone’s hand
when storms roll in over those evergreen ridges.
Even if … it isn’t her hand.
Even if … it never was meant to be.
But sometimes—
when the wind shifts in the evergreens,
when silence breaks just right—
she wonders if he feels it too:
the pull of something unfinished,
not broken,
just unraveled … frayed at the end.
If ever the trees call him -
not just back to the mountains,
but back to his old self …
If his heart ever wonders again,
he should know, she will be glad.
Glad that he found peace.
Glad that he can finally love
the woman beside him
without the ache of a divided heart.
And somewhere, deep in the bayou,
a quiet flame still burns—
not for him,
but for the holiness of healing.
For love, in all its rightful places.
Some women are meant
to be the prayer
that sends a man forward.
And some prayers
find their way home
on the wind.