Coastal Aperture Poem by Henrietta Ezegbe

Windows open onto a patient ocean.
You wake before the sun,
and the horizon listens.
The walls hum their routines,
habits rising
like quiet scaffolds of morning.

Some approach in brilliance and shine.
Some arrive armored in expectation.
You move between them
with a quiet calculus
softness shielded,
discipline polished,
vulnerability rationed.

The home holds you
like a lens,
bending light just enough
to reveal and conceal.
Your footsteps negotiate
with gravity,
with space,
with the possible.

You measure the air in mornings
prayer, fasting, tea, heartbeat.
You measure the air in evenings
cooked meals, laughter, gentle conversation,
windows thrown open
to the ocean's rhythm.

You keep love in reserve,
water beneath a frozen surface.
It waits for alignment,
for patience,
for the right hand
to reach without breaking the glass.

Work moves through you
as strategy and pulse.
You map prevention and pattern,
think in populations,
weigh ripple against ripple,
outcomes turning
like tide.

Influence settles quietly.
The room adjusts
to the temperature
of your presence.

Some will mistake the calm for ease.
Some will call the lightness
nature's doing.
You let them pass,
measuring only depth.

The sanctuary holds
because you built it
wide enough
for the soft self
who loves deeply,
observes keenly,
waits without hurry.

And when the ceiling opens
to the sky it always was,
you do not startle.
You sit in your chair,
test the wind,
watch the horizon,
and remain calm weather.