Breeze

It doesn’t announce itself —
no thunder, no ceremony —
just a slow exhale
through the leaves,
a suggestion of movement
you feel before you see.

It lifts the hem of curtains,
carries the smell of rain
from somewhere far away,
somewhere you’ve never been
but somehow remember.

It asks nothing of you.
It passes through your open hands
like a thought you can’t quite hold,
cool and brief and honest,
the way good things often are.

And when it’s gone,
the air is still —
but you are not the same.
You are lighter now,
the way a field is lighter
after the wind has moved through it,
every blade of grass
leaning in the direction
of something beautiful
that has already passed.