Chat2-holding pattern

 Holding Pattern

These days arrive without edges,
a weather system stalled over the house.
Nothing breaks, nothing clears.
Even the clocks seem to hesitate
before committing to the next minute.

You move carefully,
as if carrying water in open hands—
meetings, messages, obligations
sloshing but not spilling,
because spilling would cost more
than you can afford.

There is a discipline to this kind of living:
to keep showing up without applause,
to choose steadiness over drama,
to accept that progress may look
like maintenance rather than motion.

Some nights you mistake exhaustion for failure.
But survival has its own quiet intelligence.
It knows when to pause,
when to narrow the field of vision
to the next necessary act.

If there is hope here,
it is not loud.
It sits beside you,
unremarkable and patient,
waiting for the day
when forward motion feels like movement again.

Until then,
breathe.
Hold the line.
This, too, counts as strength.

Chat1 becoming

 Becoming

Not the kind with announcements,
no ribbon, no clean before-and-after.
Becoming happens the way bone knits—
slowly, invisibly, under pressure.

You are not shedding a former self.
You are carrying her forward,
rearranging weight,
learning which burdens have become structural
and which can finally be set down.

Some days feel like standing in fog,
certain only of the next step.
But even fog has direction—
it moves, it thins, it obeys forces
you don’t have to name to trust.

Becoming is consent to unfinishedness.
To working without guarantees.
To choosing alignment over speed,
truth over comfort,
continuity over approval.

Look closely:
the patience you thought was delay
is actually form.
The restraint you mistook for fear
is calibration.

You are not late.
You are not stalled.
You are in the precise middle
where change is too deep to be visible
and too real to be undone.

This is what it looks like
when a life reorients—
quietly, deliberately,
becoming itself.

Kissing winter

The kiss burns hotter in the cold 

It thaws the dark ramifications of the frost

It blooms a pink carnation on the snow 

So bring it on - I am afraid no more

Autum Lift

 

Gold to rust and rush to still,
the fall air clings to morning’s chill.
Something grew and rises too—
toward the blue,
the sky, or bird—I am not sure.
But it lifts the heart into the cloud,
and returns—
live, and loved back.

Where we meet

 Title: Our Own Season (or alternate: “Where We Meet”)

[Verse 1]
I come from the South, where the sun always shines,
Olive-skinned children sing rough lullabies.
Even the stones hold the heat of the day,
And the sunset whispers, “it’s time to begin.”

[Verse 2]
You come from the North, where the winter is long,
Snow hushes the voice of the aurora’s song.
You wait in the dark, with a heart full of light,
Longing for stars that dance through the night.

[Chorus]
We meet in the middle, under sky-splitting flame,
When the moon steals the sun, or a meteor came.
We plant our small hopes at the edge of the road—
Berries that bloom in the cold.
Proof that we both still bleed warm.
Proof that we both still belong.

[Verse 3]
We carry the fire from our corners of earth,
Trade southern gold for your northern mirth.
The compass was wild, but it led us true—
To a season not born until me and you.

[Final Chorus / Outro]
We meet in the middle, where the strange things begin,
Not summer, not winter, not where we’ve been.
We go on together, like stars on the run—
Creating a season that’s never been sung.

Our own season

I come from the South,
where olive-skinned children
sing with rough voices
their love for the sun—
where even the stones are warm,
and sunset signals beginning.

You come from the North,
where snow blankets the voice of the aurora,
whom you long to see
while you wait in the dark
through the long duration of winter.

We meet in the middle,
on the occasion of a celestial event—
an eclipse,
or beneath the thundering fear
of a fallen meteor.

We grow berries
at the edge of the road,
proof that still—
both of us carry warm blood.

And then,
we go on

to create our own season. whom you long to see
while you wait in the dark
through the long duration of winter.

We meet in the middle,
on the occasion of a celestial event—
an eclipse,
or beneath the thundering fear
of a fallen meteor.

We grow berries
at the edge of the road,
proof that still—
both of us carry warm blood.

And then,
we go on
to create our own season.

A Wish for Magical Mornings

I wish you some magical mornings,
when you slip into the light of day,
unknowingly performing a ritual of healing,
as body and mind spring to new life.

You hear the birds,
as if for the very first time,
their song a hymn to your awakening.

And the weary world,
so often blunt and gray,
pauses to wonder:
Where has this beauty been?

And oh, how glad we are
to see you—
reborn into this day.

Lemons and Mulberries 2

Lemons and mulberries,
a little acid to elevate
a taste for the sweet—
to remind you
that joy sometimes arrives with a sting.

The perspective you earn
from climbing trees—
beyond scraped elbows and bloodied knees—
is the raw view of courage
and the sky pressed close.

There’s a price in sharing fruit
with a friend:
a piece of yourself
passed palm to palm,
always an open hand.