Watching the rain fall

There are days I listen to the rhythm of language Incense,  insensitive, incendary whilst the rain falls with certainty and the water table rises. 

For every heart break, there is a new room, but they can't all have views. 

Some rooms are made for quiet and cool, the obsidian of contemplation when your youngest tells you he doesn't think he has a soul

He clutches my hand in his earnestness  'Mooma, do you think I jumped the queue, that I am with the right family?' Casually, over an orange soda, surrounded by the commerce of reason and science, this new generation worry they have peaked at 8. 

Later, The Frenchman from the ticking clock will give advice, virtually patting my hand to tell me that if I talk smart

 Love will follow and I sigh, because not all love is romantic and the problems don't include there not that there is never enough love. 

Later the oracle I birthed asked if I had known new chapters begin with a swipe and I smile, knowing 

The bubblegum lies that fall out of the mouths of broken pledges, of the weight of royal purple.

They vie to be my favourite and I don't ever want to have to choose.  It isn't Dodge Ball.

I don't tell her to remember beginnings are incremental just as the endings may often dovetail. It wasn't just Fleetwood Mac who taught me to keep my visions to myself, to make sure I always have a wildcard tucked close. 

 I will not be the one to silence these next generations: the seers, the soothsayers, the ones stop for snails and earthworms. 

We all deserve more.

Having harvested rocks to build walls, 

we'll now plant gardens for renewal, 

For hope and remembering, a room for the present, one for the past and for whatever comes next.