Weathervane Promises

The roof remembers how we turn toward weather and light.

Your vow was copper, spinning slow in the square of the window.

We set our bearings not by maps, but by opened hands—

Two compass needles bound by one stubborn thread.

When thunder came, we counted miles between each breath,

and waited for the storm to name us something quiet.

↠↞

Not silence made of fear, but earned and breathing quiet,

the kind that keeps a lamp alive with light.

We read each other’s Morse in fogged-up breath

and wrote a small cathedral on the window

with fingertip and sentence-lace of thread,

repairing leaks with patience in our hands.

↠↞

Some days, the gusts unstitched our holding hands,

And shingles sang a brittle hymn of quiet.

We tied what tore with twine and kitchen thread.

And turned the arrow back to kinder light.

The street kept casting rumors through the window,

but home was measured softer in our breath.

↠↞

We learned to make a harbor out of breath,

to dock our doubts in palm-to-palm of hands.

When evening blue grew braver at the window,

We fed the weary day a bowl of quiet.

No trumpet saved us—only ordinary light

threaded through the seams by household thread.

↠↞

You mended winter’s cuffs with thrift-store thread

while I unstuck the radiator’s breath.

The calendar forgot to shout in neon light.

And simple work unshook our shaking hands.

The weathervane kept whispering for quiet.

And roofs can hear what hearts say through a window.

↠↞

If strangers doubt a promise made by window,

let wind translate: a faithful spin of thread;

a hinge that knows the knees of sacred quiet;

a furnace finding steady, human breath;

two mugs that warm to fit familiar hands;

A porch bulb stubborn in a patient light.

↠↞

So when the gale revisits, bring your hands to the window;

We’ll follow how our breath returns along that living thread,

and turn again to quiet—our true north made of light.