Sometimes rain
whispers gently
across prairies,
upon wildflower petals,
soaking the earth,
quenching a thirst
for life;
soaking me
with liberation,
heartbreak,
love.
To sprout something minuscule
from a wreckage
after crashing into
a house already in flames.
Tiny leaves
drenched,
reaching for the sun.
Not yet.
Not yet.
The clouds haven’t
passed me over yet.
Ashes doused,
smoke stirring,
one last choke for air.
Did you know
death would hurt you so
after the years you spent
torturing me?
Did you embrace it
or scramble to the end
for one more day?
Did you whisper or scream
your last words?
Did you ever think
you’d die alone?
That storm,
it lasted years.
Thundering, bellowing,
wind whipping, snapping,
pounding doors and windows,
cracking walls and bones,
throwing furniture array
until nothing remained
but wreckage
and ashes.
Your legacy.
And I,
still walk out in the rain
to stand at the edge
of some small town,
watching semis
roar by on the highway.
A silent reflection on
the night I almost
drove into one
for all the madness
you drove me into,
never hitting the brakes
in time to see
twisted metal,
desperate eyes,
shattered glass,
the end.
Rain pours down
to douse burning walls,
to soak me beneath
storms of indignation.
The day you set fire to
that home was
the day of reckoning.
Clouds dissipated,
black ribbons unraveling.
Heart-wrenching sobs
became gentle whispers
upon skin.
You can
start again.
He’s gone now.
Death never meant
to take you first.
(Image by WikimediaImages from Pixabay)