Where the Wild Winds Call

The wind pulls at my sleeves,

tugging me past the hollowed trees,

where shadows stretch like old regrets

and the earth hums beneath my feet.

I do not slow.

Somewhere beyond the tangled dusk,

the air tastes of rain and something unnamed,

something raw—

like the moment before lightning splits the sky,

before the world is made bright again.

And then—

a clearing, golden and endless,

where the air bends like it knows my name,

where silence does not mean stillness

but a quiet invitation to stay.

Here, I let the sky hold me,

let the ground catch the weight of longing,

and in that breath between before and after,

I remember—

I was never running away.

I was always running toward.