by the Rev. Kendra Ford
I feed myself.
I listen to the rain
falling bright and furious.
Rain remembers its falling for moment, rippling,
then forgets itself in the sheeting, sliding, silence.
The sky reflects gray in the windows across the alley.
I know my life is not
and will not be
but I adore it anyway –
book strewn and poorly fed
over-thought and occasionally betrayed;
I adore it.
It doesn’t matter that the difference
Between myself and the rain
Is a matter of a little salt and some organization.
I love my skin and all it contains until the fain falls through it.
And I’ll love it even then, if I may.