At the front window,
I found purple puddles
in the lot.
They showed me a sky,
and singing of the storm’s end
as it swayed into night.
I gasped in the screen’s bold allowance of
cool, better air for my small lungs,
and felt soothed of trouble.
(I couldn’t fix it all today,
and my creations, my tries,
fell limp and sorry with the spilled
Goldfish. Or so it felt.)
Mozart played next. With another shivering
sip of rain’s vanish, I stood and heard:
“Move and dance with the sky, darling.
Your shadows do not undo the light,
or shake your place there.”
Moving, belonging, relearning of
the rightness, being made —
the goodness, even now —
the freedom, really mine.