A broken tulip

.
.
.
Rain does not fall this way
in the equatorial savanna of my childhood
or the tropical rainforest which is home
or in the Mediterranean clime I planned to be in now.

This is Canada and the rain falls
in piercingly cold drops.
I am who I am
I have been where I have been
so I lift cheeks, chin,
bare neck to the grumbling sky
and accept every little wet shock

as benediction.
.
.
.
This little scribble is for those who, like me, have a life composed of multiple countries. It scares me to see borders close, and it’s something to grieve. I used the panic to fuel an article on the history of borders this month — which you can read here.