Jan 2018
I am not the storm.
I am the freshly-soaked earth.
I am the vivid petals of the quenched flowers.
I am the hazy sunlight glowing between the clouds.
I am the sound of the birds as they return to sing once more.
I am the gentle breeze caressing each and every tree.
I am the cracked flags drying in the afternoon sun.
I am the umbrella discarded in the porch.
I am not the storm.
When the rain stops,
I come alive.
I am the freshly-soaked earth.
I am the vivid petals of the quenched flowers.
I am the hazy sunlight glowing between the clouds.
I am the sound of the birds as they return to sing once more.
I am the gentle breeze caressing each and every tree.
I am the cracked flags drying in the afternoon sun.
I am the umbrella discarded in the porch.
I am not the storm.
When the rain stops,
I come alive.
This poem is a metaphor for my family situation. My father is a man I was always fearful of and I haven't seen him for fifteen years. He is the 'storm', but no matter how hard the storm may rage, I will always overpower it with my beauty and grace.
