Rain Around the Boathouse
Rain falls onto the Lake now. Thunder bellows an urgent cry of arrival. I watch from a perch made of cloth and steel while a cat dreams on my patience. I watch nature, full of passion, shift and twist around me. A Tin Roof protects me from a squid’s fate. Wood planks from a dead man’s. Four walls of invitation square the shelter. Four walls open, blessed wounds in space. I only need step outside. Allow the roots and rain to embrace my fragile feet. Stretch me thin to the sky.
I would rather not though. This shelter remains dry. I know this place. This place encircling me with a poor man’s grace. But out there, no more than a skipping stone, on a Lake thick with teardrops, Geese float two by two. These divided worlds, caught between a sliver of thought. We shall remain united in this moment, but rounded by the distance of our insistent natures. This is okay. I say. This is okay, but I notice the prick of regret. A want to be whole with the deep I sense. I notice, and let it slip between the fissures in my mind. I declare it enough that I know of them today. It is enough that I am here and know this to be true.
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