Now I Know Why It Must Rain Sometimes Poem by RIC BASTASA

there is no significance at first
when age is a little boy, the moon is the moon
nothing else, the wind is like anybody's wind
mother's breaths, like a pillow,
such a small world, of less significance
are the little things, unaccounted
laughters are laughters, sighs are sighs,

but today, the metaphors keep hovering
over my hair, like some flowers in my dreams
turning into butterflies, somehow,
the window becomes a framework of
my future, the door an opportunity
that i, as a pair of hands, must either close
or open,

this is it, every word is accounted and saved
and then something grows,
seeds are words now, and the flowers my deeds.

it rains sometimes, a cry for an unburdening.
sleep is again cruel to me.