Droplets.

You ever sit at
the base of what you feel is the world
and you're looking up at it
with wide eyes
full of tears
begging for the world to let you drink her up.

I feel that way
often
And I can't decide
if it's me
or the world
who's holding herself back
but I'm utterly thirsty. Parched. Gone too long without
a damn
drop.

Feeling in the weather patterns

It's been raining for three days
and the weather drips from my cheeks
in my own sort of downpour
you know Mother Nature and I
we're women
and we feel
and so we cry.

An old poem I wrote a few years back. I kind of like it.

Wicklow Woman

Oh woman
a ways away where I have only set foot once
from a distant land
you pull me

Your world, all lights aglow and children pitterpatter
your world of ocean waves and creeping sunrises
of crisp winter winds and
foggy, salty coasts

it pulls me.

I want to die and be reborn
in your home
in your tub

I want to walk barefoot through your old house and listen
as the boards creak like the trees in the deep forest

I want to sip coffee at your table
across from you
in the morning
and laugh with you
over dark red wine
at dinner parties

Your world is magic
and it pulls me
like the ocean pulls you
and I know it does.
To me, you are the ocean, oh Wicklow woman.
And I want to meet your shores.

Platforms

Life knocked me off my platform
so I pulled out my first pair of boots
bought on the street at Astor Place
before New York was run by suits

And I suited up for the long walk
back to myself
closer to the ground now
with sorrow
and stealth.

-Ani DiFranco.