After the Rain

Sometimes, she thinks that her life must be more beautiful than other people's. She thinks this sitting on the floor with olive oil on her hands and a half inch of yesterday's beer settled against her knee. She thinks this watching the fan spin backwards, in time with the music. She thinks this staring through the blinds, past her toenails, past the wood beside the creek. Then she remembers that she is a writer and mystic and therefore an unreliable source.