Poem – Weather of the Heart
Weather of the heart
Morning light drifted through the trees,
quiet as a held breath,
and I found myself thinking
of all the ways a person learns
to harden against the world.
Wind shapes the bark,
winter settles into the roots;
nothing becomes tough
without a history of weather.
Even stone was once something softer.
I remembered faces—
tight smiles, sharp words—
and saw them differently now,
as landscapes shaped
by storms I never witnessed.
Beneath all that armour,
a small pulse still beats:
a tenderness waiting,
a warmth not forgotten,
just buried for safety.
The forest offered no judgement,
only its simple truth:
everything opens again
when the season is right,
when the cold has finally passed.
I breathe with the morning,
letting the branches sway above me,
and feel the quiet mercy
of seeing another’s weather
instead of their walls.
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