I used to carry confetti in my pocket
ready for a reason
to celebrate anything.
Then the storm came,
and the little pieces of tissue
melted away.
I tried to catch the flood,
grab the raindrops that fell sweetest...
because God was crying,
and the tears were holy
and my hands are sanctum,
made, like all hands,
for holding faith.
I saved the drops in my pocket,
and they turned to blessings,
little pieces of poetry.
I collect their reflections,
the sanctity of their spilling:
I am ready
to celebrate
everything.