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. 

Among them,

I remember

that I too

am part leaf,

part longing,

part light

becoming form.

Flowers do not rush —

they trust the sun,

and so must we.

Each breath,

a seed.

Each heartbeat,

a root.

In their presence,

I soften.

My mind opens,

as their petals

pulse in light.

And something unseen

— perhaps my soul —

leans in closer,

and listens back.

I bloom in still places.

From the quiet,

the nothingness,

something true arises.

It does not show itself—

not yet.

But it shapes everything.

As I surrender into what is growing,

even if it cannot be seen.