Ash drapes its shoulders like memory, and still, it flowers. Petals tilt to the absent sun, white as a breath held too long, fragile as the edges of a dream that refuses to be forgotten.
This is not defiance, but a quiet insistence— a life that leans into endings, and grows anyway.
The Santa Anas come, rattling the bones of this house, Creaking whisper secrets. Clap applause as The windows shiver, as if someone seeks entry. But the dogs, calm, they know better. They rest, unbothered, somehow sensing the true nature of the storm. They know the difference between wind and danger, as I can just cock an ear.
