How can I be anything more
than someone in need of the rain?
When there’s no one here beside me,
no one to listen to my pain?
If I speak to the clouds, maybe
words will be captured in each drop.
And they’ll spread out across the Earth,
from sideways and bottom to top.
She’ll attend to my aching cries,
offer avenues to be heard,
beckoning more storm clouds to come
to secure and channel my words.
Releasing burdens flowing through,
riding every temperate call,
increasing weight of the moisture
moving tiny droplets to fall.
Filling puddles with my troubles,
waters refusing to be still.
Waters received by the Earth,
for she’s the only one who will.
My troubles seep into her
and she adopts them to feed
the wanting grass and craving trees
and parched birds who soar free.
Consuming my naked sorrows,
they grow and stretch in their ways,
bathing and playing in my hurt,
hurt attached to all my days.
It’s clear my wounds are for their good,
as sustenance for all I view,
the strong becoming stronger
and now giving birth to the new.
This immortal sadness I feel,
she makes certain is not for naught;
as she hears every aching cry
and finds purpose in the lot.
Even so, the Earth to me now
will eternally be a bane.
How can she be anything more
than someone in need of my pain?