When rain is no longer rain

When rain is no longer rain, when what is left is only
a puddle, the colour of the dirt around it, that sees the
patch of unencumbered sky that still clings to it, the

sky it does not recognize as sky, what then is left for
the clouds to say? What of the puddle stained pink by
the flowers around it? And what of the one stranded

in the middle of the street, watching the flash of soles
that hop across, the undersides of trucks that rush past,
uncaring: is there a hierarchy of falling, of chance, of

stilled rain? And what of the one just out of the shadow
of that tree, where the woman stands alone, her eyes
empty, her clothes wet with the failure of escape, all her

longing pressed into the lines on her brow, ordinariness
in her swallowed swear, in the line of her shoulders
unable to hold up the grey sky? What of that puddle

that looks up at her, the lady who wants to leave, the
puddle that wants to follow her feet? What is left after
the rain is no longer rain, after a reflection disentangles
itself from a puddle that didn’t know how to hold it?

27 thoughts on “When rain is no longer rain

  1. “What is left after
    the rain is no longer rain, after a reflection disentangles
    itself from a puddle that didn’t know how to hold it?” This whole reflection on life is beautiful

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  2. What a contemplation!!! You have sculpted ordinary in a way only you can.

    Have a creative weekend

    Much💜love

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  3. My kind of poem. Love the places you took us to. Life through a puddle. I think of it as a portal or oracle.

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  4. This reminds me how the “after” in a traumatic event has its own grinding sort of pain, so different from the sharp intensity of a moment. That after can feel like there is and all there will ever be.

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