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Sometimes we become broken,
Cracked wide open and
Rise above the living
Like storm clouds.
Calling to us with distant thunder,
Electrifying our bodies
With bolts of lightening
Alighting the skies
With nature’s sobbing
Her way of bereaving
Heavy with the water of grief.
When her wind picks us up that’s The time I rise to attend to my garden,
Through eyes unable to discern
Whats weed for what’s flower.
I may prune the rose bushes
Without the tools to prevent
My fingers from the pricks
Inflicted by thorns
Cleverly hidden in their
Leaves of beauty.
How can you presume
It’s your duty to know
Whether a band aid
Is enough or too much
Or that a tourniquet is even
Quite enough to save me?
How can anyone assume
To know better
Of how my own blood flows
Than I?
Yet the storm yields
Finally, as storms will.
Feeling gentile rain,
With every tear
Smartly camouflaged
By clear droplets,
Nourishing my thirsty heart
Like the parched earth
In a drought.
Yet there I am,
Splashing in the puddles,
Playing and singing
My unique song.
How does
The same downpour
Leave you
Though thoughtfully,
You may protect me
By tenderly drying me off,
You may unknowingly dam the river
On which I float.

For Diana Lindsay

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