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.