Some nights,
when the wind shifts
and the silence settles deep,
I step out barefoot
onto the cold veranda.

Above the gum trees—
the Southern Cross,
low and steady,
like it’s waiting for me
to notice.

It doesn’t blaze,
just holds its shape,
a quiet thing
pointing the way
I’ve always known
but needed to remember.

Not a map.
Not a promise.
Just a reminder
that home
isn’t something you reach—
it’s the walking,
the choosing,
the light you carry
when the dark won’t lift.

Ryan Stone