reach

Reach

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As the droplets of my thoughts decide to randomly go skydiving,

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they ricochet off the walls of my mind,

land in cracks they weren’t invited to,

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or evaporate before hitting anything at all.

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There’s beauty in being a stubborn weed:

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in pushing through cement when nothing asks you to,

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in finding yellow, in the middle of blue,

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when foot prints are marked on your skin,

when your leaves are being plucked,

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and still choosing to steal a dance under the sun,

even when the clouds linger.

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Through gray skies,

your flowers continue to bloom.

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Your growth is fast- all consuming and overpowering.

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You adapt to every temperature,

surviving through harsh environments,

finding a way to stay.

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I drink the rain that falls without apology,

grow taller even as the days lose their color,

see blurry shapes and still call them colors—

still call myself alive.

And that’s enough.

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Proof that even in gray light,

even when the wind tries to erase me,

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I reach.