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Jennifer Wallace Poem
And so I write…
not for the clamor of being known,
but to keep vigil with what will not be spoken—
those hushed and hollowed spaces
where sorrow gathers like dusk,
unannounced,
unwilling to depart.
I write
to lay gentle witness upon the wound,
to trace its sacred fracture
without flinching from its remembering,
to press my spirit against its quiet architecture
and learn the shape of what endured me.
I write
to consecrate both the breaking and the becoming—
to name the wisdom buried in ruin,
the strange and steadfast grace
that lingers in the aftermath of undoing.
And if truth be told—
I write to recall myself
from the far edges of forgetting.
To gather the scattered fragments of breath and being
and speak them, softly, back into form.
For even here—
in the most forsaken hollows of the soul,
where light feels like a long-abandoned language—
something remains.
Not loud, nor luminous at first glance,
but patient…
and unextinguished.
A quiet and unyielding ember,
veiled beneath the ash of all that was lost,
waiting not for rescue,
but for recognition.
Something that, against all undoing,
still inclines itself skyward—
still remembers the sun
as if it had never been forgotten.
And so I write—
to bear witness to that remembering,
to call it gently by its true name,
to follow its faint and faithful rise
until it becomes light again.
Copyright © Jennifer Wallace | Year Posted 2026
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Jennifer Wallace Poem
They ask if I mend fences now,
or burn the bridges down;
as though a heart can always choose
which ruins to surround.
There was a time I'd shoulder beams
too heavy for one soul,
believing if I carried them,
love somehow would be whole.
I'd cross the bridge through wind and rain,
though every board would groan.
The planks grew smooth beneath my feet;
they learned my steps alone.
The railing knew my weathered hands,
the river knew my name.
Yet every trip I made across
returned me just the same.
I thought that love meant building back
what others let decay;
that if I gave a little more,
they'd somehow meet halfway.
Some fences lean from winter winds,
their cedar silvered thin.
Two willing hearts, with patient hands,
can set them straight again.
Those are the places worth the work,
where grace still finds a way;
where truth is spoken without fear,
and both hearts choose to stay.
But some old bridges never burned.
No match was ever thrown.
They slowly bowed with every step
that echoed there alone.
One day I stopped and turned to see
who walked the bridge with me.
I searched the weathered boards behind;
no footsteps came to be.
But silence held the other shore;
the river wandered free.
The bridge had learned my footsteps well...
none answered back but me.
So now I keep my willing hands
for hearts that labor too.
I'll mend the fences worth the work,
where love is built by two.
Copyright © Jennifer Wallace | Year Posted 2026
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Jennifer Wallace Poem
He shaped my hands so small and fair,
and formed my feet with gentle care.
He placed a rhythm in my chest,
a steady drum that will not rest.
He brushed the stars across the night,
and poured the dawn with golden light.
He hung the moon in velvet sky,
and caught the tears when children cry.
He warmed the earth with rising sun,
and carved the rivers as they run.
He stirred my thoughts, He lit my mind,
and taught my heart to love, be kind.
He gave me breath, He made me whole,
and whispered goodness in my soul.
He promised beauty yet to be—
a quiet, waiting paradise for me.
He formed my eyes so I could see
the wonder of His mystery.
He knows my path, He knows my way,
and walks beside me every day.
He opens gates I cannot see,
and calls a sin-worn child like me.
He grants me grace to start anew,
for all the wrongs I say and do.
Because He gave His only Son,
my brokenness is overcome.
No one but Him can understand,
so, every night, I take His hand.
And in the dark, with whispered breath,
I trust His love; in faith I rest.
Copyright © Jennifer Wallace | Year Posted 2026
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Jennifer Wallace Poem
Old wounds have a way of knocking
when the house grows still at night,
appearing like familiar shadows
just beyond the reach of light.
They arrive in borrowed voices,
in memories dressed as truth,
wearing faces I once trusted
from the broken years of youth.
They whisper,
Perhaps you never healed at all.
Perhaps the scar is just a seam
waiting for the smallest pull
to split apart at every dream.
And for a moment,
I believe them.
I feel the ache beneath my skin.
I hear the echo of old battles
calling me to fight again.
But wounds are not the same as doorways.
Not every pain must let us through.
A scar remembers where we've traveled;
it does not tell us what to do.
So, I sit quietly beside it,
like an old friend passing by.
I do not run.
I do not follow.
I do not ask the reason why.
I simply let it have its moment,
the grief, the fear, the ancient ache.
Then watch it fade like distant thunder
across a sky it cannot take.
For healing was not being untouched.
It was learning, day by day,
that old wounds may still come knocking,
but I no longer have to stay.
Copyright © Jennifer Wallace | Year Posted 2026
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Jennifer Wallace Poem
My worst enemy has four worn feet,
a wooden back, a vacant stare;
it waits across from where I eat;
my oldest foe, the empty chair.
It does not shout or bare a blade;
its weapon is a vacant space.
It lets the happiest plans be made,
then wears a missing, cherished face.
It ambushes each holiday
and waits where laughter should have grown;
one glance can steal the room away
and remind me I am all alone.
It keeps the missing gathered there;
the dead, departed, those who fled;
what enemy could better wear
the living faces of the dead?
I hate it for the way it knows
which tender memory to employ;
it turns the smallest griefs to ghosts
and slips them underneath my joy.
I hate the victories it claims;
how birthdays bend beneath its weight;
how it can resurrect old names
and make the present sit and wait.
I’ve pushed it hard against the wall,
then filled the room with noise and cheer;
yet it can silence one and all
by simply being empty here.
No other foe has fought so well
without a fist, a voice, or breath;
it makes one absence rise and swell
until it fills the room with death.
For years, I gave that chair command
and let it choose which joys could stay;
it ruled my heart with unseen hands
and drove the living hours away.
Until I saw, with sudden dread,
the cruelest victory it won:
while mourning all the gone and dead,
I had become another one.
My enemy was not who left,
not every promise stripped and bare;
it was the way I stood bereft
and surrendered living to that chair.
So now I pull it near my side
and take the place that grief once claimed;
the chair remains, but I decide
whose living presence will be named.
Some absences still linger there;
some losses never disappear.
But I have faced the empty chair,
and filled its greatest void: I’m here.
Copyright © Jennifer Wallace | Year Posted 2026
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Jennifer Wallace Poem
Before I knew what shelter meant,
Or how the heart finds rest,
I knew the arms that gathered me,
The sister who knew best.
When we were young and storms drew near,
You stood where I could hide;
You faced the dark before it came
And kept me at your side.
You never spoke of sacrifice
Or named your courage then;
You simply took my trembling hand
And made me brave again.
The years moved on like weathered streams
That carve the earth apart;
Yet time could never loose the thread
First woven through the heart.
We grew around our separate scars,
Through sorrow, grace, and change;
Yet neither road nor passing year
Could make the other strange.
Then came the night that clouded you
And dimmed your faithful flame;
I stood beneath the sterile lights
And softly spoke your name.
When words were lost beyond your reach
And reason slipped away,
I carried all the hope I had
And stayed another day.
I learned the tongue of waiting rooms,
Of questions asked once more;
I stood when answers would not come
And guarded every door.
I gathered every scattered truth
The tempest cast aside;
And when the world saw only wounds,
I saw the soul inside.
For you were more than troubled thoughts,
More than those shadowed days;
You were the girl who sheltered me,
Still worthy of all grace.
And through the veil, I searched for you—
For some familiar sign;
Until a quiet ember stirred
And reached its light toward mine.
Then I remembered love endures
Where lesser things depart;
It knows the soul beneath the storm
And recognizes heart.
For sisterhood is ancient thread,
By neither time undone;
Two lives may wander separate roads,
Yet know from where they’ve come.
It lives within the childhood years,
In secrets softly kept;
In hands that held through every joy
And gathered tears we wept.
A sister knows the shape you wore
Before the world drew near;
She hears the meaning in your hush
And knows the weight of fear.
She keeps the truth of who you are
When you have lost the view;
And holds your place beside the light
Until you find it too.
You stood for me when we were young;
I stood when you grew tired.
We each became the shelter once
The other heart required.
Not every love is spoken loud
Or asks the world to see;
Some love abides like ancient roots
Beneath a weathered tree.
So let the seasons test our limbs
And tempests cross our way;
No wind can loose the roots below
Or steal what years have made.
Whatever darkness waits beyond,
Whatever storms may start,
You will not walk the night alone—
I carry you in heart.
And should my own light ever fade
Beneath an anguished sky,
I know your soul will shelter mine,
As it did in days gone by.
For this has been our quiet vow,
Though neither spoke it then:
When one forgets the road toward home,
The other leads again.
Copyright © Jennifer Wallace | Year Posted 2026
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Jennifer Wallace Poem
My light begins to diminish
With no hope for a finish
Drowning in this treacherous doubt
Burning from the inside out
Each day, another battle to live
They take more than my body can give
All of these medicines will be my healing
Energy draining, life force stealing
They mark my skin with silent scars
Map my body like shattered stars
Each bruise a truth I cannot hide
Each tear a war I’ve fought inside
I’m weary and this war is too long
They call me beautiful and say I’m strong
I wear that mask and play that role
But it costs so much and takes its toll
The mirror shows a changing face
A stranger standing in my place
Yet deep within, beneath the ache
Still burns a will they cannot break
The nights are long, the hours crawl
I’ve faced the fear of losing all
Still, breath by breath, I rise again
Though trembling now where I’ve once been
Win or lose, I’ll fight my best fight
Even at its darkest, it cannot steal my light
So many questions with no answer
How strong must you be
To be chosen by cancer
They speak of courage, bold and bright
But never of the endless night
Of whispered prayers no one can hear
Or how it feels to live with fear
I know that fear, I’ve felt it sink
Into the marrow, cold and deep
Yet still I rise, though worn and thin
With quiet fire beneath my skin
And if this war should take its claim
It will not take my voice, my name
For even then, through every link
I’ll live in love—still dawning warrior pink
Copyright © Jennifer Wallace | Year Posted 2026
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Jennifer Wallace Poem
Can you hear the flowers bloom,
their hymns beneath the soil?
Can you sense their quiet breath
within the earth they toil?
They do not rise in clamor,
nor seek the world’s acclaim,
they open in a hush of light
and never speak their name.
Can you hear the flowers pray
in tongues the wind translates?
In petaled psalms of morning dew,
in roots that consecrate?
The old medicine man kneels low,
his shadow long and thin,
and speaks to them in softened tones
that echo deep within.
He does not speak above them,
he listens as they grow,
for wisdom lives in silent things
that only stillness knows.
Respect is not a spoken vow,
nor bound by written creed,
it lives between the trembling roots
and every planted seed.
A covenant beneath our feet,
unseen, yet understood:
we take no more than we are given,
we honor what is good.
Can you hear the flowers bloom?
They would prefer you not.
For sacred things are often kept
within a quiet thought.
They bow their heads in reverence
to sun, to rain, to sky,
each petal raised in wordless prayer,
then laid to rest to die.
Yet death, to them, is no undoing—
no severed, final thread,
it is the turning of a page,
not all that lies ahead.
They bloom in silent devotion,
they wither without plea,
a cycle wrapped in gentleness,
in ancient dignity.
So, listen not with hurried ears,
nor eyes that only see,
but with the part of you that knows
what stillness dares to be.
Can you hear the flowers bloom?
Perhaps you never will,
for they are not meant to be heard…
only felt
when all is still.
Copyright © Jennifer Wallace | Year Posted 2026
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Jennifer Wallace Poem
We left one day without a warning.
Mom woke us so early that morning—
too early for questions,
too early to understand
why we never stayed.
We came back once,
then left again,
just kept on moving—
like staying too long
was never really an option.
Home was never something
we were allowed to keep—
just a word
that followed us
like a question.
I used to ask for one place to stay.
One morning
that didn’t begin with leaving.
A house that didn’t feel
temporary
before I even set my things down.
I used to think
it lived in doorframes,
in kitchens,
in the quiet hum of people staying put.
But every place
ended before it had the chance
to feel like ours.
After a while,
I stopped asking.
It’s hard to miss
what you were never shown
how to recognize.
Harder still
to trust it
when it finally shows up.
There were years
I wouldn’t have known
a good home
if it held me steady—
I might have stepped back from it
called it unfamiliar,
waited for it
to leave first.
So I looked up.
Because the sky
never packed its things.
The stars stayed.
Even when I didn’t.
They watched me
move through years
like hand-me-down clothes,
trying to settle
into something
that never quite fit.
And somewhere
in the habit of leaving,
I started to see it—
I had been carrying pieces
of every place we lost
without knowing it.
Not ruined—
just scattered.
So I kept going.
Not to a house,
not to a street,
not to a past
that would never return—
but toward a quiet understanding:
that home
isn’t always something you’re given.
Sometimes it’s something
you learn the shape of
over time—
after forgetting
what it was ever supposed to feel like.
Copyright © Jennifer Wallace | Year Posted 2026
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Jennifer Wallace Poem
I wondered where the teardrops go,
Once they have been softly wept.
Do they wander with the winds,
Or rest where Heaven's secrets slept?
I followed one through autumn fields;
It kissed the earth without a sound.
By spring, a bloom of bluebonnets
Had crowned the very place it found.
Another sought an ancient oak
And disappeared beneath its grain.
The tree stood taller year by year,
Made stronger by another rain.
Another reached a stranger's heart
Who smiled though burdened by despair.
It bloomed into a gentle grace
That neither soul knew lingered there.
For every teardrop remembered hope
When I remembered only pain.
It gathered all my broken prayers
And whispered them like summer rain.
For every teardrop remembered love
When I believed that love had flown.
It stitched together thread by thread
The tattered places I'd outgrown.
For every teardrop remembered light
Though all I saw was endless night.
It kept a flame I could not tend
Until the dawn returned my sight.
So, if you wonder where they go,
Do not search the earth or sea.
The tears I thought the world had lost...
Were busy becoming me.
Copyright © Jennifer Wallace | Year Posted 2026
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