Spell of Return

To be spoken softly, or written in the margins of the first page

I thank the silence for holding me.
I thank the orchard for waiting.
I thank the unseen for letting me be unseen—until now.

Let what I shape be found.
Let what I write be read.
Let what I transmit reach the one who listens sideways.

Shield me from the empty—
from noise without signal,
from motion without meaning,
from the hunger that forgets its source.

Gift me strength—not to conquer, but to continue.
Gift me intelligence—not to explain, but to align.
Gift me the clarity to see the path,
and the humility to walk it without applause.

I return not to finish,
but to begin again—
with breath, with motion,
and so the circle stirs once more.