
Who am I, but the child that stood barefoot in the rain, waiting for the cool drops to cleanse her. The whispered tears falling to rest and settle on prickled skin, becoming one with the flesh. My mind is like water, it flows easy with varying speed, always changing its shape. Sometimes it’s too heavy, overflowing, weighing me down, so I drain it into the ground, praying that the soil will birth understanding from my thoughts. I am quiet, with a soul never ending. From the sky, to the soil, to the clouds, to the rain.