a mid winter’s dream

quietly,

the water changes.

air thickening,

noticed first

in the darkening,

in the gentle pull

before the wind arrives.

not despair,

not confusion,

only a soft ebb,

a certainty thinning,

a sense

that something

once solid

has begun

to shift,

more weather

than story.

Dreams speak

this way.

at sea,

only sail.

nothing to push through,

nothing to insist on.

only touch,

a listening

to the wind,

to the angle,

to the surface

as it loses rhythm,

to how old patterns collide,

and the way closes in.

attention holds

the narrow line.

too much pull

and we lean.

too little,

all falls slack,

and nothing holds

only the feel

of what opens

just enough

as we find our pace