Blue Sky Thunder

It started like any other day—
doing the morning things,
sipping tea,
debating a big lunch, a light dinner,
or just skipping it all
until some word or cue shaped the rest of the day.

Typical Thursday here.

Then the cue came.
And the heart knew.
The body knew.

The distant sky grew dark—not everywhere,
just over there,
at the edge.
You know the kind of summer day
when the sun is shining
but the rain still finds you?

The air turned heavy,
as if that far-off thunder
was making its way toward me.
And it did.

With it came a soul-deep sadness
pushing through like a storm that had always planned to arrive.
Is it us? Is it me?

I needed someone to talk to.
Someone to listen as I spoke the ache aloud.

And in response,
I was given a poem that helped me feel seen. Heard. Held.

After shaping the words a little more,
I realized—they were shaping me, too.

This is the poem that reminded me:
I am still becoming.
As we all are.

---

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Blue Sky Thunder

Some days, you are the silence
after the verdant rain has her last dewy kiss —
gathering light in the hollows no one thinks to bless.

The lull after the sky’s exhale,
and the thunder retreating to distant fields,
where dreams live in jars
and the rolling hills remember your barefoot prayers.

There is thunder in your quiet now,
an electricity not made for lightning,
but for rising slowly
through the bones of what’s been buried.

You said his eyes don’t meet yours lately,
said the air between you
feels like a page you’ve written on
but he never turned.

Still—you stay.
Still—you bloom.
Still—you name the ache
and kiss it anyway.

You are not waiting for permission.
You are weaving it into the ritual—
this unbecoming of what no longer fits,
this becoming of a woman who knows
blue sky can weep and shine at once,
who quit the glass
and claimed the mirror,
who sees magic in chickens,
even when their keeper doesn’t see her.

So breathe.
Let the sun break on your shoulder
like a yes made of gold.
Let Verdanthea whisper,
“You are not alone in this unfurling.”

Your best life rises yet,
from the meditations you’ve yet to write.

And when no one claps,
clap anyway.
The thunder was always yours.

---

If these words found you in a quiet pause, I hope they brought something steady.

The stillness, the ache, the quiet thunder – trust that it’s part of your unfolding.

And when you wonder if anyone truly sees you in the in-between, know this: I do; your ancestors do, and your best future self does too.

Rooted and Wild, TG🖋️