we write the unordinary after spring rain,
with brushes drawn through paint-infused puddles
& color splattered on every rainswept side street.
we cartwheel on wet palms beneath a saturated sky.
we waltz on power lines while the world tilts
& the wind tears through our hearts.
we sing & write sonnets & talk about shakespeare,
full of monsoon words & laughter purer than melody.
when the downpour comes, we do not run inside
but we let each droplet touch us as softly as daylight.
we forget our curfews to stand flushed at dawn,
our eyes luminous & our blood made into velocity.
we write the unordinary & grow hushed with the realization
that we can conduct an orchestra of bluebirds,
that we can change the tempo of the wind.
Eventually, we realize our joints have stiffened,
and we remember the confines of our bodies.
We can no longer move our pens and paintbrushes
with the ease that we used to—so we stop and listen.
In the distance, we hear our metaphors in a child’s sonnet,
along with the echo of the bluebirds’ symphony.
We walk on chalk in side streets and afterwards
we wait for the spring rain to come again.
Even at the end of the world, we say,
there will be stars somewhere, and they will remember
the stories of all the unordinary people.
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