My Life In Word

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

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