The Water Cycle

It’s almost as if the rain was asking my permission,
Lightly tapping on my shoulder,
To see if it might not upset,
Were it to take it’s place by my little toe.
The wind came up from behind,
In the manner of a true toddler,
And tried,
With all his might,
To arrange for my embarrassing stumble.
The clouds seemed less foreboding,
Almost friendly, it would seem,
With their soft grey eyes,
looking down at you,
Somehow by-stepping condescension,
But thankfully,
Not condensation.
There’s a cycle all round,
That I can’t seem to escape.
I can’t seem to touch it, in fact.
I brush away the falling tears of the white giants,
To try and touch something,
but to no avail.
The wind seems to escape my grasp at every corner,
Though the element of surprise is with me,
And the clouds are always smiling from just a little too far away.

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