My calloused palms curiously peer at the Skies above. They hold its gaze and hope into a hazy night clouding their vision.
They don’t count the inches and miles between the crevices within and the Spaces above, they don’t let their faces fall flat, forever fighting gravity’s luring tug.
Instead, they catch each Raindrop, each Pitter Patter landing silently on cracked calluses; Calluses cultivated by doubts who tugged on masts of the tallest spars, forever failing to find this rumored Horizon.
And as the sails shifted with winded times, I let the Ropes fly free, curiously gazing above… arms extended, fingers spread wide, these thickened palms catch the raindrops falling, falling. Always Falling.
In the depths of the forbidden orchard, a daughter catches and catches sweet berries from her father.
He Crouches low behind the thicket, tossing the fruits gently her way. Sticky violet juice sprinkles her cream wrists as she holds the gems too tightly.
Their delicate skin laminates hers as color seeps down her thin arms.
She looks at her stained hands and asks, “Poppa, why won’t you come out from behind the bushes?”
He answers with silence.
And I am curious, ever curious, with the daughter’s question echoing In my ears. A reverberating tinnitus.
My palms turn their faces up, asking “Why?” as I wait for answers to Pitter Patter silently over calloused years.
But no matter its purity, this Rain will never cleanse me of the violet dye pulsing through my faint wrists.