When early morning air, crisp and cool, shuffles through,
the trees bow and applaud graciously.
Rooted down in what is belief,
reaching toward the heavens,
which are never quite in reach.
When the rain, wet, steady as pain rolls through,
hope drifts gently to the ground.
It is felt throughout,
side-stepping the confines of time and space.
They will reach up only to never reach.
What if they never reach?
Will they exist?
Stubborn though it is,
slow as rain it will subside.
Reach
Sink silently into what it should be.
What would you have it be?
Each rose shall have its thorn.
Patiently they will outlast the rain.
Stubbornly reaching up against what is broken.
Rain, slow as pain can only last for as long as ordained.
It leaves what is left to its own existence,
prepared for when early morning air, crisp and cool,

shuffles through.