First Language

Faith is not strange.
It does not ask you
to believe what is not there.

It is more like this.
You have been away
a long time,
and then one morning
you find yourself
on a familiar path.

The trees do not question you.
The light falls
as it always did.

Something in you loosens.

You begin to remember,
not all at once,
but quietly,
how to speak
in the language
you first knew,

the one made of breath
and attention,
of naming what is before you
without fear.

Even if your voice
is uncertain,
even if you pause,

still,
the words return.