The way they are. I grieve

How many storms can an island endure?

How many rainbows have I seen for sure?

Furious fire strengthens steel,

soft drizzling raindrops temper what we feel.

We bury our dead as the farmer buries his seeds,

within their metamorphosis they are both set free.

I think of how difficult it must be,

to give up being a stream, to become a lake, on its way to becoming the sea.

And for a struggling seed to escape its shell only to become an orchid, so very, very beautifully.

A man looked at me with fear in his eyes saying; “ go from here, please leave.

For your ideas are different, we like things the way they are.”

I grieve.