My poem for this painting:

For a long time, she carried the dream quietly, privately.

Protected it from doubt, delay, and the many ways the world asks a woman to let go of what calls her most deeply.

But the dream did not disappear.

It waited for its moment — quietly gathering itself, like wings beginning to open.                              And when it began to move, she knew.

Not because everything was finished, or every answer had arrived.                                                    But because the signs were there now — alive in a way they had never been before.

What once felt distant was beginning to answer her.                                                                              What once lived only in longing was beginning to take form.

And with it came the quiet, certain knowing: this is not your imagination.                                          This is not foolishness.                                                                                                                                  This is not too late.

This is movement.                                                                                                                                          This is confirmation.                                                                                                                                        This is the life you have been sensing beginning, at last, to move toward you as surely as you are moving toward it.

Keep going, don't look back.

This is the beginning of her becoming.