humble

Real love is not the spark—it’s the slow-burned timberstacked by hand,one quiet choice at a time,until winter’s breathcan’t put it out.It’s the irony of a flamethat doesn’t boast,yet warms everything within reach. It is less like a roseand more like the soil—dark, unnoticed,and willing to cradle the rootsso something else can bloom.It’s the long patienceof…