Worn Threads in a Shifting Sky

Was it always this way?

The wind carries my questions

like loose threads from a tattered sleeve.

I reach— (but what am I holding onto?)

Clouds drift like lost thoughts, heavy

with the weight of things left unsaid.

(Do I always fall apart so easily?)

The sky keeps changing, but I remain

here, on this patch of earth

where dandelions whisper secrets between stones,

golden against the gray.

Is it their stubbornness that keeps them alive,

or is it the rain?

I wonder if it’s weakness to want stillness,

while storms gather inside me,

knocking against the walls I’ve built

(weak walls)

to keep everything out,

to keep everything in.

The garden overgrows again—

weeds push up, wild and alive,

reclaiming space I never tended to,

and I can’t tell which of us is thriving.

But the cracks, they tell a story

of survival,

where I’ve been pieced back together.

(Was I ever whole before I broke?)

It’s hard to remember.

Harder still to know if I want to be

the vase on the shelf,

gathering dust,

or the fragments

scattered across the floor,

waiting for someone’s gentle hands

to pull me from the dust.

But there’s beauty in being undone, isn’t there?

In letting go of the need to choose—

to stand in the storm,

and feel the rain,

without asking if it’s washing me clean

or simply drowning me.

(Am I holding my breath?)

The wind tugs at the threads again,

and I let them go,

one by one.

Perhaps I was never meant

to be sewn back together.

Perhaps the sky—

shifting, breaking, healing—

is enough.