On Being Understood Poem by Henrietta Ezegbe

They ask for a summary.
Themes.
Style.

As if a life
could be rendered
in clean lines.

As if weather
could be explained
without standing in the rain.

They trace what repeats
and call it pattern;
they touch the surface
and name it depth.

They will say
architecture.
Atmosphere.
Control.

They are not wrong.

But the work
is not repetition.

It is calibration:
a degree nudged,
a boundary held,
a silence measured
until it carries weight.

Meaning gathers slowly.
Not in the saying,
but in what the air
can sustain.

If they must describe it,
let them.

The climate does not shift
because it has been named.

It shifts
only when something unseen
decides
to hold.