Recompense to the Rainwater

The rolling thunderclaps frighten her as she swings on a rusted wood porch swing. Her hands flutter to her eyes like startled white birds. She wants to go pick the jasmine and rose from the fields. The smell of sunshine haunts her and the heavens begin to cry. She braids the lilacs into bookmarks to press into the pages of her life she slowly creates, pasting laughter and joy with the dog-eared photographs.

She's tired of being alone. She wants her strong gentle prince, count, or beggar to come and elope into the sky with her. She wants to feel alive. Her life is a movie, with forced lines and rewritten scripts smudged with potato chip grease. She sometimes wants to bleed to make sure she is still breathing. Her cuddly feet pad across broken blue-green cement to catch the scattered sheets of her many yesterdays.

Her eyes are a stormy blue-gray, harmonizing with the sky. The sky sets itself on fire over and over as she steps onto the crushed gravel that bites into her feet. Her hands go up and sing the words that her ears cannot form. Her clothes lie upon the step as she bared herself down to her soul and ankles. Her face is filled is filled with tears and piety as she turns around and around and until the world disappears and all she can feel is alive again.

She wants those days of peanut butter sandwiches and jelly shoes again.

But now is not so bad.