I believe in the flowers
growing in my mother’s garden, having weathered
storms of relentless rain and whipping wind.
And I imagine they are not unlike myself,
seeking shelter when the summer sun slips
behind sheets of slate clouds for who knows
how long.
On these rainy days I am tempted
to plunge my hands into the damp earth,
squeeze my fingers around dirt and rock
feeling around for the thrum
of Mother Earth’s heart,
willing myself to become fluid
like the rain as it transforms into a part
of everything,
until her heart beats
in unison
with mine.
The Rummy Writer 