After the Weather
The sky,
Reflected on glass towers,
has not decided what it is.
Endings are not architecture
built to say goodbye
with my name
carved on the door.
No one sleeps
when tomorrow hums
beneath the floor.
Nothing stays in the mould
It came in.
The body knows this.
Even the old photograph
is becoming a different photograph.
Someone sits
and watches their shadow grow.
But it’s just morning.
The dead do not return,
but light finds the places
where they stood.
It’s not consolation.
The wound
has changed its address.
The empty chair
becoming wood again.
Silence no longer asks
to be filled.
Time takes our names
and buries them
where trees grow,
with outstretched branches,
like hands opening.
It’s only the weather
Passing through.
12 AUG 2026, Francisco Bravo Cabrera – Ilica, Turkey
