A flower. A storm. A field.

Some days, you are a field.

Drenched in sunlight

half colour, half scent.

Trespassers are allowed here, are welcome here.

Beauty that is for everyone. Beauty that can haunt you, but won't.

Soft and bright.

Grounding and grounded.

Warm and forgiving.

Bees buzzing. Birds Chirping. Wind blowing. Flowers swaying.

You give, always.

Some days you are a cloud.

Hovering above,

afraid of getting close, afraid of what you can do to the field.

You are always a trespasser. You should be executed,

you think.

Dark and unpredictable.

Gloomy and catastrophic.

Brittle and punishing.

Sun engulfed. Birds out of sight. Storm brewing. Flowers swaying, still.

You take, always,

you think.

Some days, you are a passerby.

You watch from a distance

as the cloud meets the field.

You see what happens when the rain comes pouring down and soaks the soil.

You see how the field seems fuller and the cloud seems lighter.

The flowers grow taller, go closer to the cloud.

The cloud sees how it gives.

Some days, you meet a cloud and think they're the field.

Some days, you meet a field and think they're the cloud.

You see how you are both, you can be both.

You see how it is antithetical and nonsensical

but only in your head.

Some days, you are a passerby.

You see how others water the field, as you withhold the clouds.