The Garden of Possibilities
I have loved rain
long before I knew
It was a kind of literacy.
The sky opens its mouth,
And suddenly the world remembers
how to be washed without apology.
Every leaf lifts its green chin.
Every flower, dramatic and half-dressed,
acts as if she has personally been chosen
by God, by weather, by some fine invisible committee
That finally got the memo.
And I understand her.
There is something holy
about being touched by what once frightened you.
There is something sophisticated
about mud,
about the way the earth receives interruption
and calls it nourishment.
Rain does not ask permission
to arrive.
It enters like an auntie with keys,
a little loud,
a little late,
carrying medicine in a plastic bag,
saying, “Move over, baby,
I came to clean this place up.”
Then comes the sun,
unbothered,
gold on its shoulders,
walking through the garden
like it owns every possibility
and, frankly, it does.
The sun does not explain itself.
It does not dim to make the weeds comfortable.
It simply arrives,
warm, brilliant, almost rude with confidence,
and says to the petals,
“Now perform.”
And they do.
The basil straightens.
The roses gather themselves.
The soil exhales.
Even the stubborn little herbs,
the ones I almost gave up on,
begin again with nerve.
This is how possibility works.
First, a storm.
Then, a clearing.
Then, the audacity
of something tender
standing upright.
Somewhere between thunder and radiance,
I find myself again:
not ruined,
not waiting,
not begging the season
to recognize me.
I am the season.
I am rain when the roots are thirsty.
I am sun when the room has forgotten its warmth.
I am the woman in the garden
with dirt under her nails
and a vocabulary too expensive
for anyone committed to misunderstanding her.
And here it comes,
Resilience.
Abundance.
Discernment.
Sovereignty.
Photosynthesis.
Yes, photosynthesis.
Because even my healing
had to learn how to turn on the light
into food.
Let the record show
I have been weathered,
but not wasted.
I have been drenched,
but not drowned.
I have stood in the garden
of possibilities
with my silk thoughts,
my loud ancestors,
my inconvenient hope,
and my very specific standards.
I have watched rain kiss the ground
and sunshine flirt with everything blooming.
And I have decided,
With all due reverence
and just enough sass,
that I too will bloom
without rushing,
without asking the weeds
for permission.
The garden knows.
The rain knows.
The sun knows.
Even the vocabulary book knows:
Some women are not defined.
They are entire languages
returning to themselves—
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