By Dawn Sands
my first love was a thundercloud,
mother nature's swollen belly.
two-year-old eyes glued with primal glee
to the windowpane, joy unblemished
by symbols pre-established,
pathetic fallacy doomed for a death
at the hands of the child
who knew that rain is a prayer of thanksgiving
and that every living being needs water to grow.
i think that every child
has a poet's soul, marked
by memories of wombtime, dreamtime,
and the first few months:
the first brief glimpse of streetlamp haze,
of ripples and patterns that gleam on tarmac
of the columns that spiral from the heavens
and ricochet off shining metal;
raindrops glistening on a leaf
or on the petals of a cerulean flower, nature's gift,
before the older years
the primordial shower at the shaking of a branch,
the two sacred hours in the garden of a relative,
dancing with the storm until the night swept in.
my next love was a flood,
the stale, unmoving remnants of joy.
the sodden socks still airing in the kitchen
raindrops dissolving into tears
heart mourning for the puddle of the prayer,
the poet's soul sinking to the ground
after all that’s left is bitter petrichor
and the child discovers that you can't override
poetry, destiny, fate.
mother nature, father god, fall afresh on me.
Dawn Sands (she/her) is a 16-year-old writer from the UK with a love for literature in all its forms, especially poetry. She often writes about themes of nature, nostalgia, and the poetry that is intrinsic in even the most mundane corners of life. She is currently working on an urban fantasy novel, to be published in 2024. You can find her on Instagram @dawnllsbooks.
Hot Pot Magazine 