Clouds Have Always Been Women

Nanki Kandhari

Clouds have always been women—

braided in softness,

swollen with stories

they were never allowed to pour.

They gather, quietly,

between gossiping winds and forgotten rooftops,

holding storms in their belly

so that the harvest may thrive.

They do not arrive with announcements—

only anklets of thunder,

skirts stitched with rain,

and a scent like old lullabies soaked in soil.

You call them moody.

I call them magnificent.

They grey with waiting,

then split open—gracefully—so you may breathe.

They are mothers

who refill rivers,

lovers

who never overstay,

daughters

who drift too soon.

They are blamed for floods,

for spoiling weddings,

for blocking light.

No one thanks them for the shade.

Clouds have always been women—

asked to give,

expected to vanish,

judged for the weight they carry.

But when they do decide to stay—

when they rain with rage instead of permission,

they drown cities,

rewrite skylines,

and still—

still—

are called over-emotional.