Park bench on the storm’s edge, one foot in the rain. Washing these filthy boots clean of everywhere they’ve walked so far. I breathe in the downpour. Breathe deeply. I’ve always felt you closer in a shower. Maybe because I feel cleaner, or because I need the reminder that you weep too. And I need to be near you.
And I’m not thinking about my wet clothes, or how cold the car’s AC will feel later. I’m not thinking about the growing dark, or the receding shadows. The glow of the lights; ours and yours. Ours strung across the trees; yours strung across the sky. The soft glimmer we imitate; the divine clash you speak through the heavens. And the bridge between the two awash in glow.
The pink of hidden dusk. The grey-blue of a steady trickle. The green of growing earth. The yellow of holiday lights. The white of thunder bellow. The colors of kindred spirits.
December feels like
June. And June feels like change.
And change feels like You.
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