Zebra Seeking Spoons

My body becomes weather

without a forecast.

What worked yesterday

does not work today.

The rules have changed

while I was sleeping.

Pain rises like a tide

inside familiar rooms—

joints, muscles, breath—

rearranging the furniture.

I measure the day in spoons,

count them twice,

drop one on the floor

and still try to keep going.

Rest is not a reward.

It is a negotiation.

A truce I sign

with shaking hands.

The world keeps asking

for my usual pace,

but my body speaks

in a slower language now.

I am not weak for listening.

I am surviving the storm

from the inside.

This is not the whole story—

just the chapter

where I stay,

breathe,

and wait for the weather

to pass.