The body is a borrowed shoreline,
salt-lipped and listening,
never certain which tide will claim it.
Bone is a cathedral of quiet lightning.
Veins hum their red psalms
beneath a ceiling of tender skin.
The heart, stubborn metronome,
conducts its invisible orchestra
with trembling wrists.
Outside, the sky rehearses its tempers.
Clouds bruise without warning.
Wind presses its cold palms
against the windows of our ribs.
I have seen mornings bloom gold as marigolds
and by afternoon curdle into iron.
I have felt my pulse flutter like a startled sparrow
at the slightest rumor of thunder.
We walk through orchards of uncertainty,
each breath a porcelain cup
balanced on the lip of gravity.
The earth turns without consulting us.
The seasons molt in secret.
Inside, cells divide like whispered conspiracies.
A single spark can unspool
the silk tapestry of equilibrium.
A single kindness can stitch it back
with luminous thread.
Both the body and the world
are tempest and tenderness intertwined.
They are avalanches disguised as lullabies,
gardens seeded with meteorite dust.
Still, we wake.
Still, we anchor ourselves
to the small mercies.
Warm tea steaming in porcelain dawn.
The hush of snowfall on bare branches.
The quiet covenant of breath entering,
breath leaving.
Unpredictable, yes.
But astonishing.
A fragile vessel sailing
through a mercurial cosmos,
lantern held high
against the weather.
Feb 19
Feb 19, 2026 at 1:31 AM UTC
The body is a borrowed shoreline,
salt-lipped and listening,
never certain which tide will claim it.
Bone is a cathedral of quiet lightning.
Veins hum their red psalms
beneath a ceiling of tender skin.
The heart, stubborn metronome,
conducts its invisible orchestra
with trembling wrists.
Outside, the sky rehearses its tempers.
Clouds bruise without warning.
Wind presses its cold palms
against the windows of our ribs.
I have seen mornings bloom gold as marigolds
and by afternoon curdle into iron.
I have felt my pulse flutter like a startled sparrow
at the slightest rumor of thunder.
We walk through orchards of uncertainty,
each breath a porcelain cup
balanced on the lip of gravity.
The earth turns without consulting us.
The seasons molt in secret.
Inside, cells divide like whispered conspiracies.
A single spark can unspool
the silk tapestry of equilibrium.
A single kindness can stitch it back
with luminous thread.
Both the body and the world
are tempest and tenderness intertwined.
They are avalanches disguised as lullabies,
gardens seeded with meteorite dust.
Still, we wake.
Still, we anchor ourselves
to the small mercies.
Warm tea steaming in porcelain dawn.
The hush of snowfall on bare branches.
The quiet covenant of breath entering,
breath leaving.
Unpredictable, yes.
But astonishing.
A fragile vessel sailing
through a mercurial cosmos,
lantern held high
against the weather.
Both the body and the world carry a quiet unpredictability, shifting without warning, reminding us how little we truly command.
