Poetry by Rowan Evans

I have planted my heart in the soil of patience,
watered it with quiet devotion,
let the sun of your laughter
pull life from the roots.

No storm will make me wither,
no drought of certainty will shake me.
I am here, standing steady,
waiting for the season where we bloom.

I am already all-in,
yet I know love is not a race,
but a garden carefully tended,
each petal unfolding in its own time.

So I will cross oceans,
wade through tides of doubt,
stand by your side beneath moonlit skies,
whispering promises into the wind,
knowing they will find you when you are ready.

For love—true love—is not a demand,
but a gift given freely,
a fire that does not burn,
but warms,
a hand extended,
but never pulling—
only waiting to be held.

And when that day comes,
if it comes,
I will not say finally.
I will only say thank you.