After The Wind
I did not hear it arrive.
No warning,
no knocking at the ribs of the house.
Only later did I notice
the chair had moved closer to the window,
and the dust had chosen new corners to rest.
The wind was not violent.
It did not break anything.
It only asked questions
the walls could no longer answer.
I began to misplace old habits
the way one loses coins
in familiar pockets.
What once fit my hands
started to feel borrowed.
Even my voice changed.
It learned the weight of silence,
how to pause
before calling something destiny.
Some doors stopped recognising my name.
Others opened without ceremony,
as if they had always been waiting
for this version of me.
Now, when the air shifts,
I do not resist it.
I stand still
and let it rearrange the room.
Change, I have learned,
does not announce itself.
It leaves quietly,
and you spend your life
learning how to live
in the shape it made.