There’s a weather that doesn’t show up on forecasts.
Not storm.
Not calm.
Just… suspension.
The beach wears fog like a thought it hasn’t finished.
Edges blur.
Distances lie.
I feel it in myself,
this loosening.
Old names no longer fitting cleanly,
new ones not ready to be spoken aloud.
It’s uncomfortable,
this not-yet.
The urge to rush toward definition,
to pin meaning down before it drifts.
But winter knows better.
So does the tide.
Some transformations require enclosure.
A narrowing before a widening.
A season where nothing is demanded
except patience.
If this is a chrysalis,
then let it be quiet.
Let it be awkward.
Let it take the time it needs.