A Storm on Bare Feet

A storm on bare feet

tracking mud into the kitchen—

not clumsy,

but certain.

The kind of entrance the earth makes

when it knows it belongs.

She is weather—

a body full of sky,

carrying both drought and flood,

both mercy and wreckage.

A barometric shift wrapped in skin,

capable of ruin

and regrowth

all in a single breath.

Not the polished version,

not the apron-tied smile

or the quiet hands folding—

but the one that thunders in unannounced,

dripping with truth,

leaving a mess no one asked for

but desperately needs.

She is the tide that returns

even when the shore forgets her name.

Pulling fragments of herself

from the moon,

leaving salt in every room she enters.

To be a girl on fire with a soft voice,

the crackle beneath calm,

burning what no longer serves,

yet warming what still can grow.

She is dusk and dawn in the same hour,

the in-between no one can hold—

a breath caught

between what was expected

and what insists on being.

She is the mud—

not the mess,

but the proof.

That she was out there

where it rained,

that she moved through it barefoot,

and still—

came home whole.