Hollow Wind, Heavy Sky

The wind came first—

Not a howl, not a whistle,

But a low, hollow breath

As if the earth itself was sighing

Through a cracked and distant memory.

It curled through the trees

Like it was searching for someone who left

Without saying goodbye.

The sky hung low, swollen with gray,

Clouds heavy as unshed tears,

Dragging their grief

Across a town too used to silence.

I stood in the field

Where wheat once danced in golden rhythm,

Now bent and broken,

A choir with no song.

Every gust whispered questions

I didn’t want to answer.

Why did you stay?

Why didn’t you run?

What are you still waiting for?

The wind knew things

It had no right to know.

The sky, an enormous lid

Pressing down on every thought I tried to lift,

Made me feel smaller

Than I ever knew I could be.

I wrapped my jacket tighter,

As if it could protect me

From something that had no form,

Only feeling.

And still I stood there,

Rooted like the last leaf

On a skeletal branch—

Shivering, stubborn,

Not ready to fall.

Because somewhere beneath the weight

Of the sky’s unspoken sorrow,

And inside the echo of the wind’s lonely tune,

There was something still breathing.

A spark, maybe.

A thread.

A single note waiting for the right chord.

So I stayed.

In the wind.

Under the sky.

Letting it all press against me

Until I didn’t flinch anymore.

And that’s when I realized—

Even the hollow wind has music,

Even the heavy sky can lift.

But not before it makes you listen.

Not before it breaks your stillness.