Gathering Dreams

I learned early that the ground keeps no promises.

You can give it your mornings, your aching hands and the last clean water in the house, and it may still answer with silence. But every day I returned to the hillside with the yellow sack folded beneath my arm. I gathered whatever had survived the night—small beginnings, stubborn roots and pieces of a future too young to name.

People passing below saw only labor. They never saw what I carried home inside that sack: the belief that effort could outlive circumstance.

By evening, it dragged heavily against the earth. Not because the world had given me much, but because I had refused to leave anything valuable behind.

Some dreams are not discovered.

They are gathered.