My Life In Word

A POEM A DAY 258

July 10, 2026

My Joy

My joy begins where the first light slips through the longleaf pines of North Florida, painting the forest floor in ribbons of gold. Before the roads awaken and the world remembers its hurry, I find peace in the hush of creation—in the rustle of palmettos, the chorus of songbirds, and the gentle breeze that carries the scent of pine, cedar, and rain.

I find my joy along the winding banks of the Suwannee River, where dark waters move with quiet purpose beneath towering cypress trees. Their weathered trunks stand like faithful guardians, while Spanish moss sways from ancient live oaks, dancing to a rhythm only the wind understands. The river does not rush, and in its steady flow, it reminds me that there is beauty in moving through life with grace instead of haste.

My heart feels at home on sandy trails where deer leave fresh tracks in the morning and wildflowers bloom without seeking admiration. The rolling hills of North Florida rise gently beneath wide-open skies, offering peaceful overlooks where hawks circle overhead and clouds drift like unhurried prayers. Here, every path feels like an invitation to slow my steps and open my heart.

The crystal-clear springs are among my greatest joys. Their cool waters, bubbling from deep within the earth, shimmer with impossible shades of blue and green. Beneath their glass-like surface, fish glide effortlessly while turtles drift through waving grasses. Standing beside these springs, I am reminded that the purest things often flow from hidden places, quietly nourishing everything around them.

As evening settles over the countryside, another kind of beauty awakens. Tree frogs begin their chorus from the wetlands, crickets weave their endless song through the fields, and fireflies scatter tiny lanterns across the dusk. The setting sun washes the sky in soft shades of amber, rose, and lavender before giving way to a blanket of stars that shine brighter than any city lights ever could.

Even the summer thunderstorms bring joy. Dark clouds gather over the pines, thunder rolls across the fields, and warm rain soaks the earth with life. When the storm passes, the air feels washed clean, carrying the rich fragrance of wet soil and fresh leaves. The world seems to breathe again, and so do I.

Nature here asks for nothing except my presence. It teaches me through every season, every river bend, and every quiet sunrise. The steadfast pines speak of resilience. The flowing river whispers of faith. The ancient oaks remind me that strength is found in deep roots, while every wildflower blooming along a country road proclaims that beauty does not need permission to flourish.

This is my joy—not found in crowded places or hurried moments, but in the sacred stillness of North Florida. It lives in the call of an osprey soaring above the Suwannee, in the cool embrace of a spring-fed stream, in the shade of centuries-old live oaks, and in the gentle peace that settles over the land as daylight fades.

Here, surrounded by God's creation, I remember who I am. The forests quiet my restless thoughts. The rivers carry away what I no longer need. The open sky lifts my eyes with hope. In this place of pine forests, clear springs, winding rivers, and endless horizons, my soul discovers that joy has never been far away. It has always been waiting for me in the heart of North Florida.

Simona A. Brinson

Photo by Deborah Downes on Unsplash

A POEM A DAY 257

July 9, 2026

A Flower of Radiant Beauty

She rises where the quiet light is born,
not asking permission from the morning sky,
but opening anyway—
petal by petal,
as if the world itself
had called her name.
The wind moves around her gently,
as though it remembers
something sacred it once forgot.
Even time slows here,
hesitating at the edge of color
too vivid to pass without notice.
She does not try to shine.
She simply becomes what she is—
a soft declaration
that beauty does not need applause
to be real.
Bees arrive like small prayers
drawn to what they cannot explain,
and the earth beneath her roots
holds steady,
as if proud to be the ground
that supports such becoming.
And when evening leans in close,
she does not disappear—
she gathers the last light,
holds it briefly within herself,
and teaches the dark
how to remember brightness.

Simona A. Brinson

Photo by Kazuhiro Yoshimura on Unsplash

A POEM A DAY 256

July 8, 2026

Mending

A heart can break from death,
from the empty chair at the table,
from a voice you still expect to hear
when morning enters the room.

It can break from rejection,
from hands that let go too easily,
from being almost chosen,
almost loved, almost enough.

It can break from loss,
from dreams packed away in silence,
from names you no longer say
because they bruise the mouth.

It can break from betrayal,
from trust split clean down the middle,
from discovering the knife
was held by someone you loved.

It can break from disappointment,
from prayers that seem unanswered,
from roads that close
after you have walked so far.

But mending comes quietly.
Not all at once.
Not like lightning.
More like dawn loosening the dark.

It comes in tears finally allowed to fall,
in breath returning to the body,
in sleep after nights of sorrow,
in laughter that surprises you.

It comes when you stop asking
why the heart had to shatter
and begin noticing
what still beats beneath the ruins.

A heart mends by remembering
it was made for more than breaking,
that even cracked vessels hold water,
and even wounded things can bloom.

Simona A. Brinson


Photo by Ante Gudelj on Unsplash 
©mylifeinword.com All rights reserved.

A POEM A DAY 255

July 7, 2026

Gravitational Pull

We are all broken in one
way or another, though some of us
won’t admit it, and we gravitate
towards the brokenness in others.
We gravitate to those people, places
or things in which we see pieces of
ourselves.
A cracked laugh.
A tired smile.
A silence that sounds like home.
We recognize the ache
before anyone names it,
feel the pull before we understand
that sometimes broken things
are only searching for where they belong.

Simona A. Brinson

Photo by Recep Tayyip EROĞLU on Unsplash

A POEM A DAY 254

July 6, 2026

Even Seeds Split Stone

You ever feel so small
That even a mustard seed appears mountainous,
and no one notices
how hard you are fighting just to stand?
Like the floor has swallowed your shadow,
like your voice has folded itself
into the corner of your chest,
too tired to ask for room.
You smile because people expect sunrise,
but inside, clouds keep gathering,
heavy and gray,
pressing rain behind your eyes.
You carry whole storms quietly,
tuck thunder beneath your tongue,
and still answer, “I’m fine,”
when your spirit is crawling.
Some days, hope feels far away,
a tiny thing on a distant hill,
but still, you reach for it—
one breath, one prayer, one trembling step.
Because even small things survive.
Even seeds split stone.
Even the smallest faith
can rise, root, and grow.

Simona A. Brinson

Photo by Ruedi von Erlach on Unsplash

A POEM A DAY 253

July 5, 2026

Mercy in a Bottle

He raised the glass
like a prayer
no church could hear.
The whiskey burned,
but for a moment
it quieted
the names of old regrets.
At the bottom of the bottle,
he searched for forgiveness,
mistaking numbness
for peace.
Morning came,
and mercy was gone—
leaving only
an empty bottle
and a thirst
it could never satisfy.
Tomorrow,
he will lift the same glass,
chase the same ghost,
and call it hope once more—
only to find
the same empty bottle,
the same unanswered ache,
the same lonely ending.

Simona A. Brinson

Photo by Europeana on Unsplash

Independence, Deferred

July 4, 2026

Independence is spoken as if it is finished
as if it arrived in a single year
and stayed whole ever since.

But freedom does not settle evenly.
It gathers in certain streets, certain voices, certain names
while others remain rehearsed in caution
learning the shape of being watched.

A celebration can light the sky
and still leave shadows on the ground.
Fireworks do not reach the neighborhoods
where opportunity moves slowly
or not at all.

There are people who are told they belong
and still must prove it again tomorrow.
There are people who inherit liberty
and others who inherit suspicion.

If one life is restricted by poverty,
another by profiling,
another by the quiet weight of prejudice
then independence is not complete.
It is partial, conditional, unfinished.

The day marked as freedom
holds within it a quieter truth:
that freedom is not a possession,
but a shared condition
and when it is denied to one
it is diminished for all.

So the sky still blooms with color
and the nation still calls it joy,
but beneath the noise there are questions
that do not fade with the light.

Who is free today.
Who is still waiting.
And what would it mean
for the celebration to finally include everyone.

Simona A. Brinson

Photo by Mario Sessions on Unsplash

A POEM A DAY 252

July 3, 2026

Where the Fog Keeps Your Name

The cabin waits
where the hill surrenders
to the hands of mist,
its weathered walls
still holding the breath
of forgotten winters.

The trees stand like old mourners,
their black limbs
lifted toward a heaven
that no longer answers.
Even the wind
moves softly here,
as though afraid
to wake the dead.

I found you
on a morning
the world had hidden itself.
The fog wrapped around your shoulders
like a bridal veil,
and your smile
was the only warm thing
the valley remembered.

We loved
as abandoned places love—
without witnesses,
without promises
the world could understand.
Our hearts became candles
burning in a house
already claimed by shadows.

But time is faithful
only to endings.

Now I climb this lonely path
where moss swallows footprints
and silence grows
between the roots.
The door hangs open
just enough
to suggest
someone has only just left.

Sometimes I imagine
you still waiting inside,
your hands resting
upon the windowsill,
watching the fog
erase my outline
before I reach you.

Sometimes I hear
your laughter
woven into the branches,
so soft
I mistake it
for rain.

The mist never tells me
whether you died,
or simply became
part of the mountain.

So I return
whenever dawn forgets
to become day,
bringing flowers
that bloom only in memory,
speaking your name
into the gray silence
until it echoes back
like a vow
spoken inside
an empty chapel.

If love survives anywhere,
it is here—

in forgotten cabins,
in ancient trees,
in the cold breath of morning,

where every ghost
is only someone
who loved too deeply
to leave.

Simona A. Brinson


Photo by m wrona on Unsplash 
©mylifeinword.com All rights reserved.

A POEM A DAY 251

July 2, 2026

Dew Drops and Sunshine

Before the morning finds its voice,
the meadow wears a crown of glass.
Each blade of grass lifts silver pearls,
small miracles that never last.

The dew arrives without a sound,
borrowed from the hush of night,
holding tiny worlds inside
until they meet the morning light.

Then sunshine spills across the hills,
a river poured from skies above.
It kisses every waiting drop
with quiet warmth and patient love.

The diamonds tremble, glow, and fade,
returning softly to the air,
teaching that the loveliest things
are often those we cannot keep or wear.

Still every dawn begins again—
fresh jewels stitched on leaf and vine,
a promise written by the earth
in dew drops and in sunshine.

So may my heart be like the field,
open to both loss and grace,
catching every drop of hope
before the day begins its race.

For even fleeting beauty leaves
a light that time cannot outshine;
the soul remembers morning's gift—
those humble dew drops,
that faithful sunshine.

Simona A. Brinson


Photo by Jonas Weckschmied on Unsplash 
©mylifeinword.com All rights reserved.

A POEM A DAY 250

July 1, 2026

A Garden Tainted

My heart is already
a garden tainted
by your deceit
and your lies.
Even when I close my eyes,
I still see them—
the shadows you planted,
the words you twisted,
the truth you buried
beneath your careful smile.
Your lies do not leave quietly.
They rise like smoke
from the ground of me,
staining every place
I once believed was safe.
I wanted to trust
the sky of you,
the open field,
the soft promise
of your hands.
But deceit has wings.
Trickery knows how to fly.
It circles back
when I am alone,
lands heavy on my chest,
and reminds me
that betrayal does not end
just because the mouth
stops speaking.
Now I walk through myself
like a ruined garden,
touching what remains,
naming what still lives.
My heart is tainted, yes—
but not destroyed.
Even wounded ground
remembers how to bloom.

Simona A. Brinson

Photo by Prometheus 🔥 on Unsplash

recent posts

My Joy

Share this:

A Flower of Radiant Beauty

Share this:

Mending

Share this:

Gravitational Pull

Share this:

Even Seeds Split Stone

Share this:

Mercy in a Bottle

Share this:

Share this:

Where the Fog Keeps Your Name

Share this:

Dew Drops and Sunshine

Share this:

A Garden Tainted

Share this: