A new year has arrived, shimmering with untamed potential. The world feels alive, as if the very air is humming with the anticipation of what’s to come. This is the start of something extraordinary, a moment when anything seems possible, and everything feels within reach.

2025 carries with it the quiet wisdom of the past and the radiant energy of new beginnings. It’s a bridge to dreams long imagined, now waiting to be brought to life. The days ahead are unwritten, but they are rich with promise, inviting you to step forward with courage and conviction.

This is the time to create. To move with intention. To embrace the unknown and transform it into something remarkable. Let the momentum of this new year fill you with purpose, and let its light guide you toward the best version of yourself.

The story of 2025 is yours to shape. Make it one for the ages.

© 2025 A.M. Roberts. All rights reserved.

As the year comes to an end, we find ourselves at a moment that feels heavy with meaning. The past months were filled with experiences that challenged us, changed us, and carried us to this point. Now, with the last few days slipping through our fingers, we take a moment to look back and ahead at the same time.

Think about the moments that shaped this year for you. The ones that brought laughter bubbling to the surface, the ones that tested your resolve, and the ones that quietly reminded you of what truly matters. Each experience, whether joyful or difficult, left its mark, nudging you closer to the person you’re meant to become.

And now, the future stretches out like an open road. What lies ahead is unknown, but it’s alive with possibilities. What risks will you take? What goals will you chase? The next chapter is waiting to be written, and it’s yours to shape however you choose.

So, here’s to this year; a collection of moments that taught us, strengthened us, and inspired us. And here’s to the one on the horizon, ready to greet us with opportunities we’ve only begun to imagine.

The story is far from over. In fact, the best is yet to come.

© 2024 A.M. Roberts. All rights reserved.

Oh, December, you magical thing,

With frosty air and the joy you bring.

Twinkling lights and laughter abound,

In every corner, cheer is found.

Scarves and mittens, snug and tight,

Faces glowing in candlelight.

Cookies baking, their scent so sweet,

A season of love feels so complete.

Snowflakes dance in a winter’s waltz,

Nature's glitter, free of faults.

Children’s giggles fill the air,

As magic lingers everywhere.

Hot cocoa cups and stories told,

Memories made worth more than gold.

A time to give, to hug, to share,

To show the ones you love, you care.

Oh, December, you’re soft and kind,

Wrapping the year in peace of mind.

Let’s savor you, both near and far,

Our final wish, a shooting star.

© 2024 A.M. Roberts. All rights reserved.

Hey everyone,

It’s been a while since I’ve put pen to paper—or rather, fingers to keyboard. Life has been a whirlwind lately, and I’ve found myself caught in a bit of a writer’s block. With so much going on—mom life, work, baking, extra courses, and a growing list of tasks—I’ve been hanging on, juggling it all the best I can.

Even though I haven’t been writing, I’ve still been reading here and there. Your stories, thoughts, and creativity have been like little sparks of inspiration for me. They remind me of the magic of storytelling and the joy of sharing ideas, even when I can’t quite translate my own thoughts into words right now.

To anyone else who might be struggling to find balance or feeling overwhelmed: you’re not alone. Let’s keep pushing forward together. Life may be busy, but there’s always time to connect, reflect, and create—if only in little pockets of time.

I hope everyone is doing well and finding joy in your own journeys. Here’s to picking up the pen (or keyboard) again, one day at a time.

XoXo,

AMR

They wake with light, two sparks so bright,

In their eyes, worlds of wonder and delight.

Hand in hand, they lead me on,

To lands unknown, at the break of dawn.

With laughter wild, they chase the breeze,

Climbing high, as if the trees

Hold secret whispers just for them—

My heart beats loud as their little hymn.

Through starlit dreams, their voices ring,

Tiny adventures in everything.

They hold my heart, fierce and free,

Two souls bound, forever with me.

© 2024 A.M. Roberts. All rights reserved.

November slips in with a quiet grace,

her breath a soft chill against the skin,

where leaves have turned to copper and gold,

and fires flicker to welcome her in.

She brings the scent of earth and pine,

of crisp air laced with distant smoke,

a reminder that warmth can still be found,

in knitted scarves and borrowed coats.

There’s a calm in her fading light,

a beauty in the bare, open trees,

as if she’s showing us the art of letting go,

of finding peace in simplicity.

We gather closer, hands and hearts,

sharing stories by the early dusk,

with laughter that fills the cooling air,

and mugs that warm like gentle hugs.

November is the pause before winter’s chill,

a season of softness, an ember’s glow,

reminding us to slow, to breathe, to see—

that even in endings, there’s room to grow.

© 2024 A.M. Roberts. All rights reserved.

The air in Marta’s workshop always smelled of lavender and wool. The afternoon sun streamed through the small window, casting golden patches across the floorboards, and dust motes danced in the warm light. The hum of the old sewing machine filled the room as she guided fabric beneath the needle, her hands moving with the precision of years of practice.

She had become known throughout the village for her skill, and people came from far and wide to commission pieces. Some wanted quilts that could cradle them in the warmth of a lost love, while others sought fabrics that could bring a touch of happiness to a home weighed down by grief. Marta never refused a request, knowing that the stories she stitched were never hers to keep.

But there were times when the weight of those emotions became too much to bear. After her husband’s death, Marta had stopped sewing for nearly a year, the workshop falling silent as dust gathered on the spools of thread. She had buried herself in solitude, unable to face the memories woven into each blanket and scarf she had made for him.

A Mysterious Client

It was only after her sister’s gentle coaxing that Marta reopened the workshop, though she rarely took on more than a few commissions. One autumn afternoon, as the leaves turned gold and the air cooled, a new client arrived—a man whose presence seemed to shift the air itself. He wore a dark coat that brushed the floor, and when he spoke, his voice carried the distant sound of wind through trees.

“I’ve heard of your gift,” he said, his eyes drifting over the unfinished quilt draped across a chair. “I need a quilt that can hold the memory of a lost love.”

Marta hesitated, her fingers brushing the edge of her apron. She had done many such quilts before, but there was something in the man’s gaze, a sadness that ran deeper than anything she had ever encountered. “What is the story you wish me to weave?” she asked softly, her voice barely carrying over the ticking clock.

The man paused, looking out the window at the clouds gathering in the sky. “She was taken too soon,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I never got the chance to tell her goodbye.”

Marta nodded, understanding his unspoken grief. She led him to the workshop’s back room, where she kept her fabrics—rolls of rich blues, deep reds, and the pale silver of dawn. He selected a bolt of dark indigo, the color of twilight, and Marta felt the weight of his sorrow settle over the fabric like mist.

As she began to sew, the memories came to her—brief flashes of the man’s love, her laughter in the rain, the touch of her hand on his cheek. The emotions flowed through Marta’s fingers, weaving themselves into the threads, turning each stitch into a heartbeat. The quilt grew heavy with their story, its edges fraying under the burden of what was left unsaid.

Threads of Grief

Days turned into weeks, and Marta found herself working late into the night, the man’s sorrow seeping into her own. She couldn’t shake the memories of her husband, the nights when they would sit together on the porch, watching the stars appear one by one in the wide sky. She thought of the promise he had made to her before he fell ill—“I’ll find you in the next life, Marta, no matter where you are.”

But now, she could only find him in the quilts she had made for their home, each one stitched with the love they had shared. She reached for a bolt of blue fabric and cut a piece for herself, her hands moving almost on their own as she stitched her own grief into the seams. A tear slipped down her cheek, landing on the quilt’s surface, and she watched as the fabric shimmered, catching the moonlight in a way that seemed almost alive.

A Finished Quilt, a New Beginning

One cold morning, the man returned to collect the quilt. Marta unfolded it on the table, revealing a landscape of deep indigo swirled with silver threads that shimmered like constellations. He ran a hand over the fabric, his expression softening as he traced the lines of a memory woven into the cloth.

“She would have loved this,” he said, his voice cracking. “Thank you.”

Marta nodded, feeling a strange lightness in her chest. She watched him leave, the quilt wrapped carefully in his arms, and for the first time in months, she felt something other than the ache of loss. She turned back to the blue quilt she had begun for herself, running her fingers over the stitches she had made the night before.

She worked on the quilt in the evenings, adding a new piece each time a memory surfaced—his laugh, the way his hair caught the sunlight, the warmth of his hand in hers. Each stitch brought her a little closer to the man she had lost, and as the fabric grew, so did her understanding that grief was not something to be hidden away. It was something to be shared, to be stitched into the fabric of life, alongside love and hope.

The Final Threads

Months later, as winter melted into spring, Marta finished her quilt. It was a patchwork of blues and golds, threaded with the memories of her husband and the life they had built together. She draped it over her shoulders and stepped outside into the night, feeling the weight of the stars above her. The wind rustled through the trees, carrying with it a whisper that brushed against her ear.

“I found you, Marta.”

She closed her eyes, letting the warmth of the quilt wrap around her like an embrace. She knew then that she would keep sewing, that she would continue to weave the stories of others into her work, because it was through those threads that she could hold on to the love she had known.

And as she walked back into her workshop, she felt as though a new thread had been added to the sky—a line of silver that connected her to the stars, and to those who watched over her from beyond.

© 2024 A.M. Roberts. All rights reserved.

The night is thick with a chilling breeze,

whispers rustle through empty trees,

and shadows stretch like fingers long,

pulling me toward their ghostly song.

Lanterns flicker with a haunted light,

casting spells on Halloween night.

Jack-o'-lanterns grin with wicked glee,

their hollow eyes daring me to see.

I walk a path both dark and strange,

where laughter echoes, low and deranged,

and every step on the cobblestone

feels like a pulse that’s not my own.

The air is sweet with fear and thrill,

as creatures creep from windowsills,

and every gust, a breath unknown,

sends chills deep down into my bones.

So let the shadows sway and spin,

in the dance where night and fear begin,

for Halloween is a ghostly trance,

when all the darkness comes to dance.

© 2024 A.M. Roberts. All rights reserved.

When the winds howl and tempests rise,

and the world feels bent to break,

I dig my roots a little deeper,

holding ground for strength’s own sake.

The sky may darken, clouds may roar,

and shadows fall on steady light,

but somewhere beneath, my spirit stands,

anchored firm, unseen, and bright.

For storms may lash and branches sway,

and even the tallest trees may bow,

yet deep within, a quiet strength,

keeps my heart unbroken somehow.

So let the thunder roll, the wild winds blow—

I am rooted, fierce, and free.

Through every storm that life may send,

my spirit holds, unshaken as the sea.

© 2024 A.M. Roberts. All rights reserved.

The heat in San Jose village pressed down like a heavy blanket, turning the air thick and stifling. The river that once wound through the fields had dried to a trickle, leaving the crops withered and brittle. Cattle wandered listlessly along the parched ground, their bones jutting against their hides. The village had not seen real rain in nearly three years, and each day the sky stretched above them, endless and empty.

Miguel sat on the porch of his family’s wooden house, watching the dust devils twist across the horizon. He ran a hand over the old leather pouch that had belonged to his grandmother, the last rainmaker the village had known. Inside were herbs and seeds, talismans that she had used in ceremonies to summon the rains. She had taught him the old songs, the ones that called to the sky and whispered to the clouds, but Miguel had always thought they were just stories—until the rains stopped coming.

He closed his eyes, remembering the day she had passed, her voice weak but filled with certainty as she placed the pouch in his hands. “The rains will listen to you now, Miguelito. But you must believe. The sky knows when your heart is true.”

He had laughed then, thinking her words were nothing more than the ramblings of an old woman. But now, as he watched the land crack under the weight of drought, desperation gnawed at him. The village elders had tried everything—prayers, rituals, even hiring engineers to dig deeper wells—but the ground remained dry, and the crops continued to fail. The villagers whispered that the land was cursed, that the spirits of the river had turned their backs on them.

Miguel opened the pouch, the dried herbs crumbling between his fingers. He had tried the ceremony twice before, chanting the old words into the night, but the sky had remained stubbornly clear. He wondered if he should even try again—if there was any place for a rainmaker in a world where satellite weather predictions held more power than ancient songs.

A Community Divided

Word spread quickly that Miguel was attempting the old ways, and the reactions in the village were mixed. Some of the elders nodded approvingly, murmuring that it was time to respect the traditions that had kept their ancestors alive. But many of the younger villagers looked at Miguel with skepticism, their faces drawn with worry.

One afternoon, as Miguel was gathering herbs by the riverbed, he ran into Carlos, a farmer who had lost most of his corn to the drought. Carlos crossed his arms, leaning against the rusted remains of a tractor. “You think a few old words are going to bring the rain, Miguel?” he asked, his tone sharp with frustration. “This isn’t your grandmother’s time anymore. We need real solutions—irrigation systems, government aid—not fairy tales.”

Miguel straightened, meeting Carlos’s gaze. “And where have those solutions gotten us, Carlos? Look around you. The wells are dry, and the land is dying. Maybe it’s time we tried something different.”

Carlos scoffed, shaking his head. “You think those songs of yours are going to bring back the river? We’re wasting time when we should be working on something real.”

Miguel felt a flicker of doubt, but he swallowed it down, clenching his fists around the herbs in his hands. He turned away without another word, but Carlos’s skepticism lingered with him, heavy as the heat that pressed against his skin. He knew that many in the village thought the same—that he was chasing ghosts instead of facing reality.

The Ceremony Begins

On the night of the new moon, Miguel gathered the villagers who still believed in the old ways. They lit fires along the dried riverbed, their shadows flickering against the rocks as the night deepened. Miguel stood at the center, wearing the red sash that had once belonged to his grandmother. He held the pouch of herbs close to his chest, the scent of sage and cedar filling the air.

He raised his hands to the sky, his voice carrying the ancient words over the crackling of the flames. The villagers joined in, their voices blending into a low, steady hum that reverberated through the earth. He closed his eyes, letting the rhythm of the chant fill him, imagining the clouds gathering above, heavy with rain.

But as the hours dragged on, the sky remained empty, a dark expanse stretching above them. The wind shifted, sending dust swirling into their faces, and one by one, the villagers’ voices faltered, their hope fading with each breath.

Miguel’s heart sank as he opened his eyes, seeing the disappointment in their faces. He felt like a fraud, like a child playing at being something he could never become. He let the herbs slip from his fingers, scattering into the wind, and turned away from the riverbed, his head bowed.

A Sign in the Sky

But just as the last embers of the fire began to fade, a rumble echoed across the horizon. Miguel froze, turning back toward the sky. A cloud had appeared, small and dark against the stars, moving slowly toward the village. The wind shifted again, colder this time, carrying the scent of wet earth.

The villagers gasped, their eyes widening as a flash of lightning cut through the sky. Miguel felt a surge of hope rise in his chest, but he forced himself to remain still, holding his breath as the cloud hovered above them. It thickened, deepened, and then, with a shuddering exhale, released a thin curtain of rain.

It wasn’t much—barely more than a drizzle—but as the drops fell onto the cracked ground, the villagers reached out their hands, catching the rain on their fingertips. Laughter and cries of relief filled the air, mingling with the sound of the rain as it soaked into the earth.

Miguel stood in the center of it all, feeling the rain run down his face, mingling with the tears he hadn’t realized he was shedding. He glanced at Carlos, who stood at the edge of the crowd, his expression a mix of disbelief and something softer, something that almost looked like hope.

But the rain lasted only a few minutes before the cloud drifted away, leaving the land as dry as it had been before. The villagers exchanged glances, their initial joy fading as quickly as the rain itself. Miguel felt the weight of their expectations settle on his shoulders, heavier than ever.

A Final Reckoning

In the days that followed, Miguel became the subject of heated debates. Some called him a savior, convinced that he had only just begun to unlock his power. Others accused him of raising false hope, of tricking the village into believing in miracles when what they needed were practical solutions.

Miguel kept to himself, spending his days by the riverbed, his mind churning with uncertainty. He tried the ceremony again and again, but the rain never returned, and the sky remained an unbroken blue.

One evening, as he sat by the dried river, he heard the soft crunch of footsteps behind him. Carlos approached, a bottle of rum in his hand. He sat down beside Miguel without a word, offering him the bottle. They drank in silence, watching the sun set over the barren fields.

“I don’t know if it was real, what you did that night,” Carlos said finally, his voice quiet. “But for a moment, it made us all believe. That counts for something, doesn’t it?”

Miguel took a long sip, the warmth of the rum spreading through his chest. He thought about his grandmother, about the promise she had made to him, and about the fleeting rain that had fallen like a dream. “I don’t know,

Carlos. Maybe the old ways aren’t enough anymore. But I have to try. If there’s even a chance, I have to try.”

Carlos nodded, the lines on his face softening in the twilight. “Well, if you’re trying again, I’ll help. We need all the hope we can get.”

The Last Rainmaker

That night, they worked together, gathering herbs and lighting the fires, calling out to the sky with voices that echoed across the empty fields. And though the rain did not come, Miguel felt a change in the air—a shift in the way the earth held its breath, as if it, too, was waiting.

As the villagers joined them, their voices rising in unison, Miguel realized that the true power of the rainmaker was not in controlling the clouds, but in the way it brought the people together, reminding them that hope was not yet lost. The rain would come, someday, and until then, they would keep calling out to the sky.

And beneath the stars, with the embers of their fires glowing against the darkness, they waited for the sound of thunder.

© 2024 A.M. Roberts. All rights reserved.