There is no greater feeling (other than love, and perhaps forgiveness) than the way the heavens ever so slowly open in the last of the fading rumbles, parting clouds to reveal nothing more than the forgotten, that supreme is all, above and beyond this, that we never were alone through any of it; it makes me almost wish
for another storm…
I realize that this is that love and forgiveness aforementioned taking form.
Rain and storms, natural parts of the cycle; why do I let them sometimes level me? Perhaps it’s the blindsiding. What if I had a service to alert when my past in shallow puddles lurks? Tentacles too quickly encircle around my ankle– down the rabbit hole again. Yet even then, I know from experience, the falls are physically harmless. What’s another puncture in a wound unable to be seen? Though no bodily pain I’ve ever known makes me so heavily internally bleed out. Hemorrhaging soul. Still, it is inevitable: the weather changes back again every time. What’s left behind? A piece I bury, not of me, but a part of the repetition of unhealthy; one less tentacle grows back, unable to regenerate. One by one, I slay them, and the only way to pass through the portal is through those puddles, so I brace for the rain.
Storm whisperer usually, with arms outstretched, welcoming the power and harnessing it within,
sometimes the tempest turns on me and brings to the surface things long buried
and distorts my ability with the stinging rain to see clearly through such blinding pain;
it is then that I tend to collapse in the mirage of the puddle, sinking fathoms deep into the dark aqua-underworld,
forgetting how to breathe, forgetting I have limbs, forgetting I would float despite forgetting how to swim. I sink in that puddle to the bottomless grave, Goddess of the Storms reduced to sedimentary ache…
And then I hear your voice, feel your hand, then embrace. You have come to my aid and to the surface, I am raised.
Damn demonic puddle traps… I should have watched better my steps… Always looking up careless again…
In your loving arms, I get carried away. You dry my soaked soul, and together we pray.
You let me talk and cry it out with such patience and understanding. No one takes better care of me in those times of such vulnerability.
I am me with you, and you know all of me. I unwrap your gift: a snow globe of our dreams.
In front of our warm hearth, I drift into the sweetest of sleep, in the harbor of your arms, the ripples of love lulling me,
and you stay on guard to keep me safe, but assure me all is well, cradling me in your subtle strength.
I’ve never needed before, have always taken on the world
I can get used to being loved by the only mate for my soul.
After the storm, after the dark clouds part and the winds die down, and the heavens opens up, it is clear that God is present; it is when we are in the midst of it that we are challenged to not forget all along, He held us.