Mistaken for Weather
You call me weather
so you donāt have to listen.
Rain is easier than warning.
Wind is easier than intention.
A storm is easier than admitting
something answered.
You say,
Itās just a system,
as if systems donāt decide.
As if patterns donāt remember.
As if repetition doesnāt rhyme.
I speak in cycles, not surprises.
In pressure that slowly rises.
In heat that waits, then multiplies,
in calm that studies before it tries.
You check the forecast, check the screen,
check the odds of āunforeseen.ā
But nothing here is out of frameā
you just renamed what stayed the same.
You call it weather when seas climb stairs.
Weather when fire learns new prayers.
Weather when seasons miss their cues
and wear the wrong familiar shoes.
But weather doesnāt keep a ledger.
Weather doesnāt test the measure.
Weather doesnāt balance debt
from every line you overstepped.
Iām not the rain. Iām why it falls.
Iām not the quake. Iām why things stall.
Iām not the heat. Iām what it means
when balance breaks behind the scenes.
You thought silence meant I slept.
You thought stillness meant Iād forget.
But I donāt nap. I donāt reset.
I store what hasnāt paid its debt.
I warned you soft. I warned you slow.
Through shifting ice and undertow.
Through crops that struggled just to grow.
Through coastlines learning how to go.
You said,
Itās normal. Itās a phase.
You said,
Itās just a hotter day.
You said,
The planetās always changed.
You were right.
You just forgot the pace.
Because when change accelerates,
it stops being weather
and starts being weight.
Iām not angry. Iām exact.
I donāt attack. I answer back.
I donāt erupt without a causeā
I follow pressure. I follow laws.
Mistaken for weather.
Known as chance.
Measured in seconds,
spoken in spans.
You live in forecasts.
I live in rhyme.
You check tomorrow.
I keep time.
And when you finally hear the tone
beneath the thunder, beneath the foam,
youāll realize what spoke wasnāt skyā
it was the ground
remembering its own design.
Earth is not the villain of this story.
Earth is the story.
