some clouds don’t need a roof,
some winds don’t ask for walls.
you keep trying to build shelter
where the sky just wants to fall.
your hands are tired from raising
beams
against what rolls and brews.

you think every gray horizon
is a threat you must refuse.
but the storm is not a tenant.
it does not mean to stay.
it comes not to be housed,
beloved,
but to wash the old away.

let the thunder find you naked,
unprepared,
and loosely bound.
you are not the architect of weather;
you are the sacred ground.
so when the lightning writes its verdict
in brief and blazing script,
don’t reach for wood or nail or
meaning;
let the world remain unkissed.

some rains are only passing.
some tremors only pass through.
you don’t have to build a house,
my love;
you only have to be true.
true to the breath that rides the gust,
true to the earth that holds the flood.
sometimes the bravest thing you build
is just staying where you stood,
not hiding from the downpour,
not cursing the broken form,
but knowing,
deep in your bones,
not every storm needs a home.