WIND'S OF WHAT'S TO COME

 

The Winds of What’s to Come 

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The forecast whispers nothing but upheaval,

A restless tide of change rolling in—

The moon shedding its silver skin for new phases,

Waxing bold, then waning to a fragile sliver,

Leaves ablaze in crimson and amber,

Twirling down like embers from a dying fire,

Carpeting the earth in a shroud of yesterday’s glory.

New allegiances flicker on the horizon,

Shadowy shapes against a dawn yet to break,

Promises shifting like sand beneath unsteady feet.  

Sunrises spill over the edge of the world,

Each one a clean slate unfurling—

A canvas of rose and gold smeared across the heavens,

Light bleeding through the cracks of night’s stubborn grip,

Washing the sky in hues of second chances.

They beckon us to begin again,

To peel back the husks of who we were,

Clearing the fog from our cluttered minds—

The anger we cradle in our sleep,

That bitter coal smoldering beneath our pillows,

Fanned by dreams of grudges too heavy to hold.

These mornings are a quiet mercy,

A breath of grace to douse the flames,

To let the ashes drift away on the breeze.  

I choose to live deliberately now,

Treading the tightrope of logic with cautious steps,

Eyes wide to the pitfalls of impulse,

Heart guarded but not yet sealed shut.

I swing the door wide and call to forgiveness—

“Come in, kick off your muddy boots,

Settle into the worn armchair by the hearth,

Make this house your own.”

I’ve swept the floors clean for its arrival,

Left the windows cracked to air out the past,

Inviting it to sprawl across the rooms,

To sink into the cushions and linger.

And I’ve carved out extra space—

Whole acres of square feet, vast and unclaimed,

For mistakes to stumble in behind,

To trip over the threshold, clumsy and human,

Welcomed still, with their scuffed knees and sheepish grins.  

The seasons churn beyond these walls,

A kaleidoscope of endings and rebirths—

Trees shedding their coats to shiver bare in the frost,

Then budding anew with the stubborn hope of spring,

Clouds parting to reveal a sky scrubbed raw,

Stars pricking through the dark like pinpoints of resolve.

Change is the only constant stitched into time,

A thread pulling loose the seams of what we knew,

Unraveling certainties to weave something strange and new.

I stand at the window, watching it unfold,

The air sharp with the scent of rain-soaked earth,

And I learn to unclench my fists,

To let forgiveness brew like tea in the quiet,

Its steam rising to soften the edges of my scars.  

This shifting world demands surrender,

A letting go of the storms we hoard inside,

A bowing to the rhythm of flux—

The moon’s dance, the leaves’ descent,

The sun’s persistent climb from the dark.

So I lay a table for peace,

Set places for the missteps we’ll make,

And bid them sit, stay, belong.

For in this house of change,

Beneath a roof creaking with the weight of what’s next,

I’m building a refuge—

Not just for healing, but for the beautiful mess