Where the Wind Finds Her

Lovely winds, whistling by—
not a metaphor,
not a suggestion,
but real winds,
like old friends arriving without knocking,
rushing in from the east
to find her waiting.

She sits still,
on a narrow balcony,
where rust has begun its silent war
on the iron railing,
where the chipped floor tiles
hold stories from before she moved in,
where pigeons gather
but never stay long.

She is not waiting for anyone,
yet something in her posture
says otherwise.


The sky today is neither blue nor gray—
it is a restless silver.
Clouds like sailcloth drift and fold
as if the world were being stitched anew
by a seamstress whose hands remember storms.

The wind moves through the city
like music searching for a listener,
and she—
just her,
no pretense,
no performance—
becomes the listening.

She does not close her eyes.
She lets them remain open,
half-wet,
half-awake,
staring past the railing
into a vague distance
that belongs to no country
and yet feels like home.


The wind does not touch her politely.
It crashes into her
with the hunger of all that is free.
It pulls at her hair
like a curious child,
brushes her cheeks
with fingers made of memory and salt.

It smells of
old rain,
sea spray,
someone’s garden a mile away,
and fires that never reached her.


There is something almost holy
in the way she sits there—
not because she prays,
but because she does not try
to control the moment.

She lets it wash over her
like warm language.
She lets it shape her mood,
soften the clenched muscles of her mind.
She lets it move inside her
without resistance.

No screen.
No call.
No need to post about it.
She simply is.


Perhaps this, too,
is a kind of devotion:
to do nothing
but feel
what the wind has to say.

To become a page
and let the world write upon you
without needing to rewrite it.

To believe,
if only for a breath,
that silence can speak
louder than your schedule.


The neighbors don't understand.
They peer once,
then withdraw,
muttering about strange habits,
as if solitude were a symptom
to be cured.

They do not hear the music
carried in the wind.
They do not feel
how it lifts
the grief that hardens in the chest
or how it stirs the sediment
at the bottom of the heart
until things long-buried
start to float again.


And yes—
there is grief.
There always is.
It hides
between gusts
like shadow in the folds of fabric.

The wind cannot erase it.
But it can carry it a little while.
It can hold some of it,
disperse the sharpest corners,
make it lighter
if not gone.

She knows this.
She breathes it in anyway.


Once,
a long time ago,
someone told her
that sitting still
was a kind of giving up.
But that someone
never sat through a storm
without blinking.

That someone
never waited out winter
by counting the songs
of unseen birds.

That someone
never knew the quiet
can have teeth,
or that peace
can look like stillness
but feel like thunder
held just behind the eyes.


Now—
there is no need to speak.
The wind speaks for her.

It says,
you are not forgotten.
It says,
you are allowed
to feel this joy
without earning it.

It says,
you belong
to no one
but the breeze
and the moment
and the warm pull of air
over skin that remembers
what it is to be touched
without needing to respond.


Time does not stop—
of course not.
Distant traffic still complains.
The kettle inside begins to hum.
Somewhere, a door slams
and someone curses the draft.

But here,
on this crooked little balcony
with its rusted railing
and uneven view,
she has paused the part of the world
that lives within her.

And that,
for now,
is enough.


She lets the wind
tangle her hair
and rearrange her soul.
She lets it rewrite
the script of her day
into a simpler story:
“I was here.
I felt this.
And for a little while,
that was all I needed.”


Lovely winds,
whistling by—
not asking questions,
not seeking answers,
only moving forward,
with her in their arms.

And she,
no longer waiting,
no longer needing,
sits in the stillest kind of peace—
the kind found
only when you stop searching
and let the wind
find you first.

#WhereTheWindFindsHer #Poetry #Stillness #BalconyThoughts #WindAndSoul #UrbanSolitude #NatureMoments #BreatheAndBe #PeaceInTheNow #QuietStrength #SlowLiving