What the Rain Brings

It’s the peeling of coats.  Eyes melting.
The knife skidding for a while before reshaping
the purple orb into gemstones.
I’d be lying if I said they didn’t cry when they hit the oil,
shooting across the pan like skaters.

The rain has been my companion.  On days like this I cook
and remember that I have a degree and should be working.
But I’m going to grow like an onion
instead and search the earth,
push my roots down, down,
patiently wait for my thirst to be quenched.
To find that.
Identify my urges before I wilt. Pull them out and shake off the dirt.
Because it’s a childhood notion, to Save the Earth, that rains on me
On days like this,
when my thoughts escalate.

Tess Joyce

If you have any comments on this poem, Tess Joyce  would be pleased to hear from you.