perhaps an angel called today
and I was too busy
enthralled in the moments

I wonder what an angel
would want
calling here anyway

perhaps to comfort
or warn
or simply hang out

you were the death of me
you are the birth of me
an internal metamorphosis
of irrevocable change

Don’t pick the flowers child they’ll die*
Said my grandmother
And I listened

She promised that if I left them
Untouched
They’d grow and bloom with care

But she never told me that
People are like flowers

And when I picked you
All your petals fell

the fears of my heart break me down
now and then
and I am a child in need of a loving parent
it does not last very long, and I rise up
from off my knees triumphant

the rain
has its tiny droplets

that pound
on the steel bucket