The storm clouds gather,
swallows fly low and robins
grip their perch, birds cling 
tightly during storms, as do I,
holding on to the nest as long 
as they can. It’s not as easy as 
you think, this waiting, 
the tick-tock of the second hand,
listening for every footfall. 

The air holds its breath—then breaks.
Rain stitches sky to earth,
each drop a small insistence
that something must give.
Footsteps leading to the door,
your urgent departure. I loosen, 
just enough to feel the branch sway
without naming it loss.

Somewhere the swallows turn,
not fleeing but folding the storm 
into their wings. And when the wind 
passes, I am still here—
not unshaken,
but less afraid to let go
of what was never mine to hold