What remains will be washed away. Rivers are wild and rush into the fields, digging the ravines scarring the forlorn landscapes. Hills form along the distant edges dug up into their shapes beneath the torrents. Water fills my nose and mouth, there is still no air to be breathed in this drowned world, but I learn to swim among the waves. The grey blues are a world of color crashing into nonmelodic beats of continuous midranged hums. The duldrums and the hundrums, the waiting and counting of clouds, unable to dodge the droplets. There was a year of dreaming of sun rays.

What remains will be prosperous.  The reviving of the roots reaching towards everything to grow,  excavating the deep earth core. Each drop vital, collected, and named placed around my legs, around my hips, siting cross legged in the low puddles. There is enough air in between, there is enough for me here to thrive. Each entity hydrating and balming the cracked skin and dried hair, creating a land that will bloom in the times to follow a year of rain. The mist breaks and an ushering the gardens that are wild and rejuvenated.

A year of rain and ten years of being lost on my way. I was gone, but my vision is clearer now. There are quieter ways of existing immersed without the forceful submersion. A way of letting the rain fall, welcoming the soaking, blissful hydration. Lately I have been finding love in the most obscure ways and falling in love with all my surroundings, everything that exists outside of me and everything within. The world is a lover dissolved into matter and spread out, cast upon the misty sunset. There is still so much beauty emerging in the ways we choose to be interdependent. Even after the deluges, I live congruent with the seasons, within the multitudes.