the rain that falls

with light fingers i pluck strands from my hair, a medusa of memory.
these days i find i can no longer be a vessel of carnage, that i cannot
co-create with those who wish for the quake and the quell. i used to
think that if i could squeeze myself into the space between the words
“i” and “am” then i would go unnoticed, but what did i know. without
this perceptual shifting i might never escape these foisted-upon fears
of inadequacy where i can’t parallel park, balance a tray of glasses, or
love myself. when the wind shifts, i will feel it at my back, carrying me
ever-forward, that seed of grace that drops down over the landscape
and waits for the rain.

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