The living rain was pulsing through her veins;
Each breath, an understanding of the way
That life itself unfolds after the rains,
And why she then to water must give way.
For storms are made of life is made of storms —
A paradox in word, but not in thought —
Resetting paradigms, her precious norms,
She recognized with what her life was fraught.
She stepped into the downpour, saying loud,
“Though some may fail me, I won’t fail myself.”
A promise made, not playing to the crowd,
But so to take her own life off the shelf
From whence, within a jar, it once had sat:
Not anymore. The storm had seen to that —