What is it to you?

 

Love, for me, comes like dry season rain; loud, unexpected, and gone before you find a bucket.

It grows in odd soil, like that weed in the middle of the tarmac...looking strong but one sweep from a shoe and it’s gone like it never tried.

I’ve watered the wrong gardens, thinking something would bloom, but all I got was mud, and ants with no plans of leaving.

I still write though, because even broken branches try to grow leaves in August.

Even the lazy river keeps flowing, even if it's just in circles.

© amimoh_ombogo