Saturday, March 31, 2012
And, in wind, now a palm, opened, accepting. Rain pocking on pink skin, flaying fingers. The palm becomes a face, red from the unrelenting.
Now a second hand rises like the first, twists and bobs, braces against the cold and wet, summoning an echo of old stories, of your life, of mine, of vanishing and the come back.
Let these slights slap me like god’s tears, the flood of every possible being crying out, everyone knowing we have now begun what can’t be stopped.
Captured, every single detail, and spilled in the mud, seeping into yet another storm. We are standing with both hands raised. We may sink below. We will be back.
We have always proven stronger the second time through.