Poems by Freeda Kingelin

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Inside us,

a quiet sun turns —

where the outer self expands,

and the inner self listens.

Between knowing and dreaming,

a thread of light glows,

drawing us home

to the place

we never truly left.

I don’t bloom for show.

My roots tear through stone.

My petals bruise and whither.

As earth taps its rough keys,

scratching songs into the dirt,

I etch my colours into broken ground.

Come closer —

not to admire,

but to remember.

Suck me in

let the dust cling to your ribs,

and awaken the seeds you buried

without knowing.

Hands shape the unseen —

twisting, tossing,

casting stories into the winds.

Nothing is straight,

nothing still.

Only the subtle pulse

of a journey being born.