May 10, 2025
The sky is always open to me— from cloud thick to star thin.
Rain falls rough in heavy thuds.
Whether wide clear, congested or
raging like a storm— it hold space for all of it.
It doesn’t flinch when I cry
doesn’t care if I die,
never ask when I try.
It is always there,
unaltered by my fogs and lightnings,
somehow holding them in— taking
all the parts that have ever existed of me,
meeting in unison—patiently, unjudging, open.
It is so clear
everything that won’t
and everything that will.
