The sky forgets its name
and folds into itself,
a silence made of wool.
No drama of rain,
no brilliance of light—
only moments between intentions.
The trees hold still
as if waiting for a verdict.
Somewhere, a bird sings
a note that doesn’t echo.
You walk through it,
parting the gray
like a dreamer waking slowly—
not for anything urgent,
but because morning is here.
Even shadows seem thoughtful,
less certain where to fall.
The world
wears a soft indecision,
and you—
you match it.
Is there a certain kind of clarity
in the blur?
A truth
best whispered
without name?
Cloudy days do not answer.
They let you ask.
