It is only September,
and already you have built
a cathedral of worry
for answers that have not yet
learned your name.

But the harvest does not come
the same morning
you press the seed into the earth.

You buried your best self
into those pages, your wounds
rewritten as purpose,
your sleepless nights folded neatly
into 5,300 characters
of here I am, here I am, here I am.

The silence you hear now
is not rejection.
It is the tide gathering itself
before it returns to shore
carrying everything it promised.

So let September be September.
The inboxes will stir.
The doors will open
on ordinary mornings
when you least expect grace
to know your name.

The abundance is not late.
It is gathering,
the way dawn does:
invisible,
and then everywhere.

- Balls321kid