In liminal spaces
between fire
and air
is a river,
and I’ll be there every day
throughout this long and varied present.
When every day
I reach breaking points,
I feel myself shatter in the rivers.
The water transforms my body into prisms of light.
A rainbow on a drying riverbed.
What do I do with the desert,
where there is nowhere to hide?
Succulents watch as I drift
away like flower petals to root
in gardens that will actually
hold me.
Sometimes
there are
fire lit candles from homes
shining through golden pains
of tempered glass.
Soft voices murmur and
glasses clink, when it gently rains down on me.
I hear singing cello tones from my past lives.
I don’t know
whether I am the singing soil
or
the seed in waiting but
you are water —
the water in the river bed,
and the water that rains down on me now.
At least
I see now
that a seed
is not expected
to grow without water.
When I thought I was failing,
I was only meant to be in waiting.
I don’t really know what grace is,
but maybe it is a seed—
finally
feeling
the soft
rain.