I am not the raindrop’s daughter.
I am the morning’s winter daylight call.
A fraction of pressure,
a rushing reminder.
A joke;
a half-thought.
But when the scattered bolders beyond
behold the wisdom,
thin lightning drops drape my mind.
It’s a seeming,
a mere,
a reflection so dear,
that thoughts radiate and escape.
The odds are great.
This is very well crafted — has such a nice flow to it!
Much appreciated! From what I’ve read of your own, that is a compliment!