raindrops scatter themselves
past my open window
a torrent, a helpless falling
collection of little memories
bursting onto the concrete
fracturing into a million pieces
and the flowing into the river from whence they had come.
the clouds talk in mumbles and murmurs
amongst themselves, a canopy over the valley,
enclosed on all sides and vibrating with energy that
we only see in flashes,
burned onto our eyelids
before fading again,
like those raindrop memories.
into something that we cannot hold between our fingers
in our open palms,
turning into little rivers in the lines of our hands
too clear that we cannot see them,
too cold for us to remember,
and then there are the snowflakes,
more perplexing than even the rain,
and like memories we think we can catch them,
and examine them,
and keep them for later perusal,
but we cannot,
because snowflakes are just raindrops,
and we can never catch the rain.
Spring 2018
YOU ARE READING
Unbroken • Poetry
Poetryeven the leaves will not break beneath her touch "All art is quite useless." - Oscar Wilde
