Weather of the Deep

A diver drops into the blue, a slow candle of bubbles, each one a startled star rising toward a surface the world has forgotten. Below, the water hums in a key without names.

On the slope of a drowned ridge, basalt is velveted with silt and the quiet algae of time. A crab drags its house like a small stubborn moon, and the pressure is a hand on the shoulder, reminding the heart how to beat in silence.

There are libraries down here: cliffs that keep the weather of ages in their striated pages, storms compacted into rock, summers pressed into ash. The diver reads by touch, fingertip on cold history, and each line breaks like a wave returning to stone.

When the air runs thin, the body lifts, unwilling, as if leaving a city of slow bells. Above, light fractures into a thousand coins, and the sea keeps its poems the way mountains do— heavy, wordless, and older than our breath.