The sky cries, tears, for all the lost boys.

Rain splashes upon pavement, forming puddles, which stream tiny rivulets, canals of water. Gravity, that inevitable force, beckons the water home. Listen, as it rushes, through the storm drains.

There was a time I would have folded newspaper into the shape of a boat, grabbed my raincoat from the hook, donned my boots, and set sail. My mind, headed somewhere, anywhere, far away.

It was a time of innocence. A simpler space. A fleeting moment when I believed in good.

Published by

Anna Watson

~ write like a painter