🌿 The Art of Adapting 🌿

 

🌿 The Art of Adapting 🌿

What he is talking about, I don’t quite know,
His words drift softly, like evening’s glow.
They shimmer faintly, just out of grasp,
Like a secret hidden in a child’s clasp.

He speaks of winds, of shifting ground,
Of how we stand when storms surround.
His eyes are calm, his voice serene,
Yet the meaning hides between the unseen.

I tilt my head, I try to see,
What truth he plants so carefully.
Perhaps it’s not the words, but tone,
That whispers, you are not alone.

Adapting — ah, that living art,
Where losing something is just the start.
The tree that bends will never break,
It learns to sway for its own sake.

The river carves through years of stone,
It never fights; it finds its own.
In silence deep, the world will teach,
What stubborn minds can never reach.

Maybe he means: don’t fight the tide,
Let time be teacher, not your guide.
The world reshapes the hearts that stay,
Yet leaves the rigid to decay.

I still don’t know, not fully yet,
But something stirs where doubt was set.
A quiet pulse, a patient call,
To bend, to rise, and not to fall.

For every change that bruises skin,
Is just a seed that blooms within.
The pain, the loss, the fear, the rain —
They sculpt the soul, they cleanse the brain.

He might be telling me to grow,
To let the unknown’s current flow.
To find my place in moving air,
And not demand the world be fair.

Perhaps he knows what I can’t see,
That strength is born in empathy.
That adapting isn’t just to live,
But to learn, receive, forgive.

So I will listen, though I don’t understand,
And walk this path he’s softly planned.
For meaning blooms not when we seek,
But when we pause, when we feel weak.

And when at last the dawn is near,
His words will echo, pure and clear:
“Adapt not just to what you face,
But let it shape your inner grace.”

What he is talking about — I know now, friend,
It’s not the start, it’s how we bend.
For life’s great art, both hard and grand,
Is learning to dance where we first can’t stand. 🌾