The Seam of Two Weathers

Studio sky, the colour of a held breath.
Two cobalt gazes bite through it—
winter rivers cut from the same glacier.

He stands like a lighthouse stripped to timber,
salt stacked in his beard,
the tide-marks of years folding his chest
into a shut second mouth.
Someone sewed extra buttons of skin
where the sea used to knock.

Behind him: a small, bright future,
hair green as a field under electricity.
She is not behind so much as threaded through,
a blade of grass growing from the old pier.
Her hand finds his ribs—
not possession, not comfort—
a metronome to wood,
testing how many beats a body can house.

Their shoulders make a hinge for time.
White and green—snow and chlorophyll—
share one invisible coat.
In their faces, one blue weather
stamps out eyes that do not blink.

They look hard at what keeps arriving.
No plea, no complaint:
only a truce signed on skin,
the new century peering over the shoulder
of the tallied past.

Somewhere the camera counts to one.
In the click, both weathers hold.
The seam stays shut. The field keeps growing.