I was seated at the window
watching… watching…
watching the clouds roll over the lake,
each one a soft‑footed pilgrim
crossing the wide, untroubled water.
They gathered like thoughts
I had not yet dared to name,
folding themselves into slow parades
of silver, bruise, and milk.
The lake received them all,
patient as an old friend,
unstartled by their shifting moods,
unmoved by their quiet vanishing.
And I, at the window,
felt the stillness lean toward me,
as if to say:
you too may drift,
you too may change shape,
you too may pass without breaking.
So I stayed there,
watching… watching…
watching the clouds rolling over the lake,
until the light thinned,
and the day exhaled,
and I remembered
that even waiting
is a kind of prayer.