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I am a quiet shore,

waves of colour waiting beyond the horizon.

My body aches with small tempests,

eyes and ears heavy with their own weather.

The tools sleep —

brushes, threads, wool —

while I let words take their place,

gentle enough to carry without strain.

Illness is its own strange magic,

a spell that slows the world,

turning distance into peace.

No one can reach me here,

and all the problems dissolve

like footprints in a receding tide.

This is my low tide,

a pause not of surrender,

but of gathering breath

before the next bright flood.