Where it Rains

Let us not, friends, forget

that it rains on the garden too;

sometimes it pours,

sometimes we drown

in what’s good for us.

There is no love

but not enough love,

sometimes so much

of it we lay parched

like fish on a beach,

close enough to imagine

the surf but no legs

with which to throw

ourselves back into it.

The garden is not entirely

a place of petals

and smooth edges,

so when I stop

to smell the roses,

I stoop to touch the thorns,

and start to see myself

in each blossom and

point of sharpness.

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