A nature & reflection poem about figure, cloud, rain, where attention changes the scale of the ordinary.
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The figure carries a private climate, one cloud folded under the arm. No forecast names it. No window helps. Still, the field leans towards the rain. I stand outside the sentence and feel my shoes become weather.
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Quiet is not absence but a measurable presence that changes according to distance, attention and care.
A distant figure remains self-contained, carrying an atmosphere the observer cannot own or interpret.
A contemporary poem about after the colour breaks, using a concrete image system, a pressured turn and a restrained open ending.
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