on rainy weeks when the air is cooler,
life moves a little slower, a little lower, as the rain makes space for grief and mud and tucking in under coverings to wait or continuing through weather bearing the consequences of your choice of footwear, for it is hard to tell when the rain will stop, hard to guess when it will start again, and yet the same familiar faces pass on the street, warm coffee is that much sweeter of a treat, we still greet one another with good morning, mirëmënjes, because the day is still called good by the one who made it, and goodness soaks through into the messiness of all that is each day, as rain soaks through the soil, gently watering, making flowers bud and flourish joyfully, just like faithful one said it would. Comments are closed.
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AuthorI write to process. I write to explore. I write with the hope of sharing truth greater than my own. Archives
February 2022
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