The uncarved block of the sky,
today, a canvas of grey.
Heavy sighs of clouds,
pregnant with the coming weep.

No forced brightness here,
no painted cheer to mask the weight.
The wind, a low murmur,
carrying the scent of damp earth.

And then, a yielding.
A tear in the thick fabric,
unbidden, unexpected.
Gold spills through.

Not a harsh glare,
but a tender unveiling.
Crepuscular fingers,
reaching, blessing the shadowed land.

A silent knowing unfolds.
The weight is real.
The coming rain, inevitable.

But behind the grey,
unburdened, unwavering,
the sun.

Not a promise to erase the storm,
but a truth whispered:
even in the heart's own downpour,
the light remains.

It does not fight the clouds.
It waits.
It is.

And in that fleeting glimpse,
a quiet understanding settles.
The heaviness will pass.
The light, the source, endures.