Made For

I can already feel the sky darken,
gathering along the edges now …
unavoidable.
It is strange to long for a thing that is present now
the way you miss the sun before it’s gone …
a sweetness sharpened by the knowledge
that nothing golden stays.
The warmth on my skin becomes memory
even while the light still lingers,
and the horizon mutters
with the low growl of thunder.

The storm gathers like an inheritance …
not asked for, not welcomed,
but pressed into my hands all the same.
I did not pray for lightning,
I did not beg for rain,
still the clouds come heavy with their verdict,
and I am told I was made for this.

I was not built for still gardens
and long afternoons of ease …
my bones were tempered in struggle,
my voice carries the taste of iron and ashes.
It is not that I welcome the storm …
God knows I would rather rest in the calm,
keep my face turned toward the warmth of the sun …
but if the sky splits,
if the wind must rip up the roots,
then let it.
I will not bow.

There is a strange comfort in this knowledge …
to understand that my place
is not in the silence of the meadow
but in the howl of the gale …
not in the safety of shelter
but in the wild heart of the tempest.

Whether the calm will come again, I cannot say.
Perhaps the sun will rise once more,
perhaps the sky will gather itself again.
But if the rain must fall,
if the fire must rage,
then let it find me standing,
unbroken,
unflinching,
not afraid,
not pleading,
only certain that I was born for this storm …
that when the sky burns with fury,
I burn too …
not as its victim,
but as its answer.

And if there is hope, it is this:
that even in the ruin of the storm,
new roots find shelter in the cracks,
new songs rise from scorched throats,
and the light, though battered,
still finds a way back through the clouds.
The storm may rage,
but I will rage louder …
and when the calm does come,
if it comes,
I will greet it standing,
fierce,
unbroken,
unrelenting.