It begins
with one.
One woman.
One snowflake.
One spark.
One seed.
One star.
One dream.
One voice.
One idea.
One thread
she keeps finding
in the dark.
One thing
in her chest
that will not
be quiet.
No witnesses.
No proof.
Just a quiet,
stubborn
knowing.
And the doubt.
It doesn’t announce itself.
It just
sits down beside you.
And still
she returns
to the thing
that will not
leave her alone.
Again.
And Again.
She waters it anyway.
Because stopping
feels worse
than not knowing
Because the fire
didn’t show up
by accident.
A snowflake
doesn’t know
it’s an avalanche.
A star
doesn’t know
it’s a constellation.
A seed
doesn’t know
it’s a forest.
It just
does
what it does.
This is how
it begins.
Not in stadiums.
In the unnamed moment.
In the unwitnessed hour.
In the woman
who had every reason
to stop—
and didn’t.
One.
It always
starts
with one.
And it never—
never—
ends there.
