her small arms hold back storms,
but there come days that
no weatherman can tell of.
some days she bathes the earth
gently, colors cool, sharp, clean
some days her soft taps become
claws on your windowsill, your branches
bending over the weight of her downpour,
of all that she is, not drizzle, not shower,
all of her.

and she wonders if you
are okay with sometimes gray, if you
have a raincoat on hand, if you
will still be standing there in her aftermath.

if not,
she will tell you it’s fine
she will make sure you stay safe and dry,
and she just might build you a shelter
(without you realizing)
you will sit under its roof
looking out the glass doors
smiling as her torrents fall, thinking oh
how well you know her