Rivers have been made from the thousands who have cried.
I know I am but one of the few.
These tears are small reminders
of the wounds we carry still to this day.
Yet here I remain,
collecting puddles of sweet rainwater-
my hands cupping each drop as it falls from the sky.
With the hope that all that has made the world green
will one day grow a garden of wildflowers for me.
Wild, untamed and free,
with roots wound loosely into the deep dark soil of the earth.
Week 34. Rain.
I wrote this poem a few years ago but thought it was appropriate on account of all the rain we’ve been having lately. I remember it was written at a particularly difficult time, right after my ex husband left. I felt as though I had cried rivers trying to come to terms with how my life was unraveling before my eyes. Through it all, I kept telling myself that one day all the pain would make sense. I wanted to be reminded that the rain is for a reason, that it has purpose. I also wanted know that stability was possible no matter how much it rained and no matter how long it took to get there.