Rainy Poems Thought Up in Trees Planted in Cemeteries

I wore white today, not knowing it was going to rain or that I would be caught in it.

I love the rain falling on me, leaving my clothes see through.

I love holding fabric between my fingers, feeling it fall into me as it leaves behind its shape.

I love the feeling of water moving and leaving my skin.

I love barefoot toes picking up blades of grass between toes, taking them elsewhere.

I love seeing geese holding my gaze patiently.

Wind picking up rain and giving it sound and motion.

Roots twisting into branches, branches still without leaves.

The clutter hasn’t returned, and from anywhere you can stand or climb there is green.

There is grass to fall into.

There are prayers written and spoken.

There are lawn chairs and people sitting in them.

There are tears falling, still and beautifully.

There is drapery in the refrain of our earth, suspending what is too much to keep on your person.

There is grass to fall into below a cloudless sky.

There are school children looking out from school bus windows, like they do each morning and afternoon.

There are flowers carried from the wind past where hands placed them, and flowers in the spaces hands left them as they left them.

Rain covered and prayer covered people walk and kneel, nor driven away.

Images of bodies touching take the forms of statues in the fountain, holding turtles, and babies and lovers and parents alike.

Breaks are released from bikes, ready to carry children elsewhere.

What was lingering speeds up as the color of the sky changes.

The color green stands out over the raindrops, and trees hold the poses they were holding.

Nature is unencumbered by itself, feeling I wonder what I’m feeling too.

Still as I am still.

Moved and entranced.

Halted by the gentlest of energies.

Lucidly dreaming about what green feels like to the souls it blankets, and appreciating the bodies who travel to be with whoever they’re connected to here.

A color, a feeling, a fish, a soul.

A shorter walk to their apartment.

A safe place they’re allowed to bike to alone.

Somewhere they have room to think.

Somewhere they go to cry.

Somewhere they come to in remembrance.

Encircled by trees, wet from the rain, more aware of the earth and its breathable hues.

Listening for the drop of rain coating my cheek to make a quiet sound as it reaches grass.

Or if it gets picked up by the wind, the sound I imagine will be heard soon elsewhere.

Writer. Thinker. Facilitator. Advocate. Invested in accountability for power based violence, creative initiatives, and meaningful, nuanced dialoguing.

Writer. Thinker. Facilitator. Advocate. Invested in accountability for power based violence, creative initiatives, and meaningful, nuanced dialoguing.