After the storm,
There is a stillness
That does not beg
to be understood.
It arrives softly,
like moonlight
resting on the tide,
like the ocean
gathering herself
after a night
of thunder.
No rancor.
No despondent echo.
No antiquated sorrow
dragging its anchor
through the chambers
of my spirit.
Just quiet.
Just restoration.
Just the luminous grace
of a woman
who endured the tempest
without relinquishing
her tenderness.
There is cogency
in this calm.
A clear knowing.
A sacred discernment
That says:
not every wave
came to drown me.
Some came
to wash the salt
from my wounds.
Some came
to expose
the fallacies
I had mistaken
for shore.
Some came
to return me
to my own vitality,
to the breath,
the body,
the truth
I had left waiting
beneath the wreckage.
Now the clouds part.
The tide softens.
The heart opens
without haste.
And I stand here,
regal,
unburdened,
and fully awake,
with light returning
to my body
like sunrise
spilling gold
across deep water.
I am not the storm.
I am the sea
after it passed.
Washed.
Wise.
Whole.
Still soft enough
to love,
still poised enough
to choose peace,
still powerful enough
to let every false thing
sink behind me.
And now,
in the calm
after all that thunder,
I rise
with luminous authority,
not because life
was gentle,
But because I learned
how to become
my own shore–
© 2026 Sherley Delia. All rights reserved.
