Am I bitter?

I ask myself as I gaze through glass panels,

watching rain plop into pattering puddles,

the droplets I yanked for my personal pleasure,

extracting a symbolism of my own composure.

The spring-fresh rebirth for which I so long

plays out again in perpetual song

as I push thoughts back to my heart’s shifts and waves

that shifted my mind and my daily thought-sway.

My heart was so walled and so soft all the same

unleashing heart-whims I’ve no wish to tame.

I sight-traced their paths from the distance I stand,

lost track of their place like raindrops in sand.

If each droplet’s path were traced to the instant,

could any heart-thought appear as a constant?

Or have I changed such that nostalgia is vain,

washed out forever by life’s cold heart-rain?

The grey is a savior, a cleansing new birth;

the renewing raindrops so humbly hide worth

as they fly through the air, a blind sort of courage

saving us all from that heavy heart-storage.


Photo: Flickr

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