I used to stand at the edge of things
with my hands clenched tight around a guess,
sure that the dark beyond my sight
was built from every loss.

But fear is only a locked front door
we mistake for a wall.
I put my palm against the wood
and felt no weight at all.

Now when the fog rolls in, I ask
what it might have come to show.
The blank is not a threat, it seems,
but a page I did not know.

I do not need to name each shape
or bargain with the night.
The unseen does not owe me proof
to be allowed its right

to simply be. And so can I,
unfinished, unsure, unmapped,
a traveler who learned to leave
the doubting door unlatched.

The questions are no longer teeth.
They are windows, slightly ajar,
and what comes through is cooler air,
and the faint, bright smell of far.

So let tomorrow keep its face
folded in its sleeve.
I will walk out with open hands,
and curious, and believe

not that all roads end well,
but that I can meet each one,
and that the unknown, once greeted,
is a morning, just begun.

– Corina.