The beach in winter
doesn’t ask anything of me.
No towels to claim space.
No bodies to impress.
Just the sound of water
doing what it has always done.
Even the shops are resting,
signs turned inward,
as if the whole place agreed
to stop performing.
I walk slower here.
Not because I’m tired
but because nothing is chasing me.
Some seasons aren’t for blooming.
They’re for listening
while the tide keeps time.