Building the Ark Without Rain

They don’t ask questions anymore.

Not because they understand

but because they’ve run out of ways to tell me I’m wrong.

At first, it was subtle.

The well-meaning tilt of the head.

The “are you sure?” in their eyes.

The quiet suggestion that maybe it’s time to be realistic.

But now?

They just watch.

From across the courtyard, behind polite smiles,

in meetings where I speak like someone holding a compass they can’t read.

They nod.

They move on.

They don’t see the ark taking shape behind my eyes.

Because the sky is still clear.

No thunder. No floods.

Just a woman in work boots, building something invisible

with every goodbye she survives

and every truth she dares to carry in both hands.

I am in the mid-build.

Where the dreams are half-formed,

the blueprints half-believed,

and the silence around me

is louder than any storm.

But I know what I’m doing.

I know what it feels like when Spirit taps your shoulder,

not with lightning, but with love.

I know what it means to be misunderstood

in the name of something holy and whole.

I know the rain is coming

not to destroy,

but to lift.

And when it does,

I won’t scramble for shelter.

I will rise.