The Sky Will Do What the Sky Does

You cannot reason
with the weather.
It will thunder,
regardless of your quiet.
It will flood the valley
even as you build the walls higher.

There are forces
too ancient to bend,
too in love with their own chaos
to ever yield
to your tenderness.

You may kneel in prayer
before the gathering dark—
hands outstretched,
offering patience,
forgiveness,
even your last match of hope.

But the sky
will not flinch.

It will do
what the sky does.

It will split open
with fury
you did not deserve.
It will send down ruin
without apology,
without pause.

And still,
you will be expected
to salvage the earth beneath it.
To explain the lightning
as if you called it forth.

You did not summon the storm.

You merely stood too close
to someone
who learned to love the sound
of things breaking.

But this—
this is your becoming.

Not in stopping the sky,
but in ceasing
to plead with it.

Not in curing the chaos,
but in walking away
from the altar you once built
to justify its violence.

Let the storm perform.
Let the clouds posture.
Let the thunder speak in tongues.

You owe no translation.

Let it rain.

Let it rage.

Let it unravel.

You are not the keeper
of someone else’s weather.

You are the architect
of shelter.
The builder of doors
that close.

And if you walk away soaked—
so be it.

Even the drenched
can still choose peace.