Precipitation transpires what I feel inside, the highest of highs come crashing from each cradled cloud to drop like beads of glass to the ground, and I’m out.
There was this huge storm back in 2010,
with the thunder,
Roads closed as blankets of snow we never dared to touch sparkled and fell so heavy on the 5 in early November.
All this, and the rain pitched to a dashing hail.
And when the rain has finally cleared, the precipitation parts unmistakable perimeters measuring visual panoramas of this dustbowl destiny.
That once in a year day we can see existence beyond when our bubble has been polished clean beyond the fault lines of mistaken identity
That’s when we met for coffee, and
“Words Between the Lines of Age”…