Some mornings open clear,
the kind of sky that makes you believe
in uncomplicated days.
Thoughts move easily,
like birds that know exactly
where the warm air rises.
Other mornings
a name drifts in
like a small, persistent cloud
that forgot it had somewhere else to be.
It doesn’t storm.
It doesn’t darken the room.
It simply occupies a corner of the sky—
a quiet weather pattern
I’ve learned not to argue with.
By noon
the usual winds arrive:
errands, emails,
the steady friction of ordinary hours.
The cloud shifts toward the edges,
thinner now,
though still present.
Evening makes it visible again.
When the kettle clicks
and the apartment settles
into its soft, familiar creaks,
the mind clears enough
to notice what never quite left.
I used to think
the sky should obey me.
But weather has its own patience.
So I let the cloud drift,
let it thin,
let it pass through the open air of thought
at its unhurried pace.
And on the days
when the sky stays clear
from morning to night,
I simply look up
and accept the blue.
Weather passes.
Even inside a mind.