Raindrops roll down my face

Blurring my vision

But no hand goes up to wipe

No hood goes to cover

My tunic getting increasingly wet

Begins to conform to my body becoming a second layer of skin

But never does an arm go up to pull it away

Nor do fingers loosen it from my frame

And a flower grows under a tree

Misplaced between cracks in the cement

A forefinger and thumb reach down to pluck

But then retreat, thinking better of it