Rain

I am so sick of rain.
It has been more than a week
of pouring and sprinkling
water from the sky.
The clouds are dark and dreary
angry with everyone
as if we all betrayed them.
The rivers are swollen,
threatening to burst
right over their banks.
And I am either miserable inside
or wet and miserable outside.
But there is hope.
I am reminded by the greeness
of the grass
and the buds on the tress
that if it never rained--
if it was never dreary
or cold and wet
then nothing would ever grow
and the sun would not feel so good.

Almost

I thought I saw your car today
in the parking lot.
I thought we might
run into each other
But it is a big store
and it might not have been
your car.
I think about it all the time
what would happen if
we saw each other again
as if nothing was different
and it was just another trip
to walmart.
But even the thought of it
scared me... thrilled me enough
that I wandered into all the departments
and I swear that I almost thought
I caught a glimpse
of the back of your head
as you turned the corner
into another aisle.
but it was by chance that
when I followed you disappeared.

home

It is strange to think
that relief should be washing over me,
that I should feel safe,
enclosed in these walls,
but more than anything I feel trapped.
It is so odd that the way the familiar
can comfort
or it can torture.
And asI sit here in this house,
I feel so very far from home.