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Evelyn Hew Poem
I have loved like windows love the morning-
quietly, without asking to be noticed,
just hoping someone would open them.
There were nights
when the moon knew more about me
than anyone ever would-
how I curled inward,
folding grief into origami birds,
sending them across invisible winds
toward the edge of forgetting.
I have lost things I never held-
names, chances, whole lives
that might've been mine
in another version of the world.
And yet I still dream in color.
There is a longing
that does not shout
but lingers in doorways
-in the way I hesitate
before saying I'm Fine
It builds altars out of absence
and worships with quiet hands.
But healing,
it does not arrive like spring.
It comes with the slow thaw of winter-
a drip,
a pause,
another drip.
Some days, I am the storm.
Others, the shore that survives it.
I have learned to carry my name
without apology,
to wear my scars
as punctuation marks-
not endings,
but proof that the story moved forward.
And if I ever forget who I am,
let me return to the silence-
not to disappear,
but to listen
to the heartbeat beneath the noise.
Copyright © Evelyn Hew | Year Posted 2025
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Evelyn Hew Poem
one thread
unravels
quietly
from the cuff
of yesterday—
loose and golden,
tugged gently
by wind
or memory.
another thread,
silver-fine,
winds forward
into what might be
tomorrow,
still unwoven,
still soft with
silence.
time does not run;
it is stitched—
moment to moment,
strand to strand,
through every glance,
every breath,
every choice
you never realized
you were making.
there are knots:
places where two lives
touch and tighten.
places where
the pattern breaks,
frays, forgets itself—
and others
where it mends
with color.
the past is not gone;
it is threaded through you,
hidden in the seams
of your skin,
tucked in the hem
of your voice
when you say their name.
you walk wrapped
in stories
you don't remember telling,
stitched tight with the
hands of those
you never knew.
(and still,
somehow,
you knew them)
the threads twist—
through journals and old songs,
through maps and postcards,
through laughter echoed
across generations—
they pass through rings,
through cracked clocks,
through names etched
in notebooks
and photographs.
time does not move forward.
it weaves.
in loops and overlaps,
in tangles and designs
we can only see
when we stop
and trace
with wonder.
so pull a thread,
any thread—
and feel the hum
of centuries
beneath
your fingertips.
Copyright © Evelyn Hew | Year Posted 2025
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Evelyn Hew Poem
We sit across from each other,
knowing what the silence says
but never daring to speak it aloud.
Time stretches between us,
fragile, like an old photograph—
faded edges, corners curling,
memories too distant to hold.
I ask about the weather,
you reply with the temperature,
as if that can fill
the spaces we once knew so well.
Your eyes flicker,
but you don’t say what you really mean,
and I don’t either.
There are so many things
we could have said,
things we left unsaid—
like the truth of why we’re here,
the weight of what’s ending,
the ache of what we can never reclaim.
We dance around the words,
fingers brushing the edges of goodbye,
but never grasping it.
Instead, we fill the air with nothingness,
light conversations, empty words
that float like dust
settling in the cracks.
We talk of distant days,
of things we once wanted,
dreams that seem so far now,
but the truth sits heavy,
silent between us,
a room full of unspoken goodbyes
we’ve learned to live with.
And yet, here we are,
together but apart,
in this last conversation,
where every word we say
feels like a refusal to face
what’s always been.
We never mention it—
how this will be the end,
how everything ends like this—
a look, a smile,
and a silence louder
than any words we could say.
Copyright © Evelyn Hew | Year Posted 2025
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Evelyn Hew Poem
The light withdraws—
not abruptly, but with the grace
of someone tiptoeing from a room
where memory sleeps on every windowsill.
Sky smears gold across the edges of goodbye,
and rooftops inhale the hush of coming dark.
The world holds its breath
while shadows begin to
slip silently
from the ankles of trees.
They stretch and reach,
curling like ink spilled in reverse,
writing forgotten things in soft grey,
and I watch—
not with fear,
but with the ache
of remembering what I never quite knew.
In the hush,
the shadows begin to whisper.
Not in words, but in movements—
a tilt of a leaf,
the sway of a branch,
the slight retreat of warmth from the stones,
the silence between wingbeats.
They speak of things
the sun never says aloud—
of old stories kept in bark and moss,
of the names of winds no longer called,
and dreams that folded themselves
into the creases of dusk.
Somewhere,
a child once stood on a porch,
counting stars before sleep claimed her.
Somewhere,
a letter waits unopened,
the ink slightly blurred from time,
its promises softened by shadow.
And in the violet distance,
twilight walks barefoot
across the fields of once-was.
It hums.
Not a lullaby,
not quite a dirge,
but something in between—
the hymn of in-betweenness,
the breath
before
the dream.
And as the sky exhales its final gold,
and night opens its dark and endless wings,
I listen.
I listen
to the
whispering
shadows
in
twilight.
Copyright © Evelyn Hew | Year Posted 2025
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Evelyn Hew Poem
.
* .
. *
* . *
. I lie still
under an ocean
of ink—each breath
a whisper rising
into a velvet hush.
My eyes sail
on silver threads
stitched across
this dark tapestry.
stars murmur
their stories slow,
unfurling like soft
lanterns in the black.
I vanish
into wonder,
beneath
the
canvas
of
night.
Copyright © Evelyn Hew | Year Posted 2025
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Evelyn Hew Poem
t a p
tip tap
p l i n k
the first drops
come dancing
across tin roofs,
windowpanes,
wide leaves,
bare skin—
tapping out
their quiet
language
on everything
we forgot
to feel.
the wind
turns the sky
into a drum
and each raindrop
a fingertip
playing jazz
on the glass
of the world.
they leap from gutters
swirl in sidewalk puddles
splash laughter on parked cars
and pirouette off petals
like ballerinas
practicing joy.
some fall
straight,
obedient to gravity
but others—rebels—
bounce,
skip,
twist,
spin.
they don’t fall.
they dance.
and every drop
carries a secret rhythm,
a soft choreography
of chaos and calm—
a memory of oceans,
a kiss of cloud-breath,
the sigh of sky.
listen—
not just with ears,
but with skin,
with soles of feet,
with the space
behind your eyes.
the rain is not noise;
it is message.
not a storm;
a ceremony.
and when you step out
into its music,
don’t run.
don’t hide.
just lift your face,
and dance.
let the world
drip
drip
drip
away—
and become
the rhythm
of rain.
Copyright © Evelyn Hew | Year Posted 2025
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Evelyn Hew Poem
Cliché: “Time heals all wounds.”
(Irritation: It implies passivity, ignoring the ache, the effort, the mess of healing.)
Better Version:
Healing is not the passing of time—
it is the choosing to keep walking with the limp.
Poem
They say time heals all wounds,
but time does nothing
without your hands in the dirt.
It just sits there,
ticks forward,
waits for you to move.
Healing is not forgetting.
It’s waking up and feeding the dog,
even when your ribs still echo
where the grief pressed in.
It’s stitching yourself back together
with thread made of old laughter
and apologies you’ll never get.
It’s watering the plants
even though you once killed every green thing
in the house
because the light hurt your eyes.
It’s how you flinch
when someone touches your shoulder
like they used to—
and how you breathe through it anyway.
Some days, healing looks like
coffee left to go cold
because you finally called someone back.
Some days, it’s just
not crying when their name comes up.
You walk differently now.
Yes.
But still—
you walk.
Copyright © Evelyn Hew | Year Posted 2025
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Evelyn Hew Poem
Sight
It’s the hush before sunrise breaking loose—
lemon light spilling through the slats,
a field of dandelions laughing
into the sky’s blue face.
It’s the color children use
when they draw the sun
too big for the paper,
insisting joy won’t be contained.
Sound
Yellow buzzes.
It’s the hum of bees at work,
a brass trumpet on a summer sidewalk,
laughter skipping across a kitchen,
window open,
someone singing badly, boldly.
It’s the fizz of soda rising,
a screen door slamming shut behind freedom.
Touch
Yellow is warm skin—
not hot, not sharp,
just enough to remind you you’re alive.
It’s sun-warmed cotton,
buttery soft,
like pages of an old letter folded too many times.
It’s the press of someone’s hand in yours
when they don’t let go first.
Taste
It’s citrus—
not just the tang, but the wake-up.
Lemon tart on your tongue,
sherbet melting too fast,
a sunflower seed tucked behind your teeth.
It’s morning,
fresh,
uncertain,
hopeful.
Smell
Yellow smells like peeled oranges
and sunscreen,
like birthday candles blown out too soon.
It’s daffodils in a glass jar,
honey dripping from a spoon,
sunlight baked into linen.
A scent you recognize
before you remember
where it came from.
Copyright © Evelyn Hew | Year Posted 2025
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Evelyn Hew Poem
The woods are never as kind
as the stories make them seem.
Little Red does not skip,
her feet heavy with the weight
of the basket,
its contents a secret darker than the night.
The wolves aren’t just hungry,
they’re desperate.
Their teeth are sharp,
their hunger endless.
And the huntsman?
His axe is too slow,
his conscience too soft
for the forest that devours
the innocent.
The glass slipper is not a gift
but a trap—
shattered on a floor slick
with blood and cinders,
and the prince’s kiss?
It’s poison in disguise.
She wakes,
but the dream has already unraveled—
her skin is no longer soft,
but bruised,
marked with the touch of something
darker than desire.
The stepmother’s mirror cracks
under the weight of truth,
reflecting not beauty,
but the hollowed-out faces of those
who thought they could bargain with fate.
The walls of the castle are paper thin,
and behind them,
the forest waits,
its branches clawing at the gates.
Copyright © Evelyn Hew | Year Posted 2025
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Evelyn Hew Poem
Once, I sang without thinking—
notes spilling like sunlight
through trembling leaves,
a language woven from breath and wind,
a melody that painted the endless sky,
dancing on the morning breeze,
weaving stories of hope and light.
My voice was free,
each note a flickering flame,
threading the world together
from dawn’s first blush
to twilight’s soft sigh,
lifting hearts and stirring dreams
with the simple gift of song.
But then silence came—
quiet as falling feathers,
heavy as the weight of absence,
and my song slipped away,
lost in shadows deeper than night,
a voice swallowed whole by the void,
leaving hollow spaces where music lived.
I searched the empty air,
reaching for scattered notes,
trying to gather the melody
that once filled mornings with hope,
but silence held me captive,
an invisible cage made of absence,
where sound dissolved like mist at dawn,
and echoes faded before they could be heard.
Days passed like restless wings
beating against unseen glass,
and I became still,
listening not for my voice,
but for the pulse beneath the quiet—
the soft rustle of life awakening,
the gentle glow of dawn’s early light,
the fragile hope that a song
might one day be born anew.
Sometimes, when the wind shifts just right,
I catch the echo of a forgotten note—
soft, fragile, like a long-lost sigh,
calling me back to the place
where music waits beneath loss,
and silence is only a pause
between the beats of a hidden heart.
Even in silence,
there is rhythm—
a heartbeat beneath stillness,
waiting patiently
for its voice to return,
for wings to spread wide
and songs to soar once more.
One day, my song will rise again—
soft at first,
a trembling note born of longing,
growing stronger,
spreading wings of sound
across the empty sky,
filling the world
with melodies I thought lost forever,
a chorus of hope reborn from quiet.
Until then, I remain—
a bird with quiet wings,
carrying the memory of music in my bones,
and the promise that silence
is never the end,
only the breath before a new beginning.
Copyright © Evelyn Hew | Year Posted 2025
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