Presence, a gift

By Navya Shukla

Presence, a gift

By third year Ostara Maharaj

Watching the raindrops race.  

Tracing the cold glass 

with the tips of your fingers,

following their course 

as you forget which one you were betting on:

The epitome of juvenile.

You peer through the two lines of clarity created by your game:

An army of trees,

lumber and leaf in formation. 

Some, ready to enter the troops

others, not yet grown up yet.

A space in the clouds,

just under the sun

creates a spotlight, 

shining over a house on a hill on the horizon;

you’d never seen something so naturally theatrical.

Thunder rolls like the hills 

as the dewy air of a storm

blurs the glass once again

So you blink to clear your eyes 

as if it will help 

and suddenly, you are

older than twenty, 

not quite twenty-one,

watching the raindrops race once again. 

The future and past 

have waned

and waxed

and melt(ed) into one

Tree troops 

And sunlight spots 

And raindrops running their race.

Enjoy the fun, it will pass soon.