Karma keeps no ledger you can see,
no ticking clock, no courtroom plea,
it moves like rain through unseen air,
quiet as breath, already there.
The way you speak, the things you choose,
the small, soft wins, the careless bruise,
all ripple outward, thin then wide,
then circle home on the turning tide.

It is not wrath, nor cosmic score,
but echoes knocking at your door,
a mirror held in shifting light,
reflecting day inside the night.
So plant with care the words you sow,
they bloom in places you do not know,
and when they rise, both sharp and kind,
you meet the garden of your mind.

JH