Poetry

Always overhead

The umbrella looks down at me, taking in the shape of my head, the faint line of my hair parting and the curve of my neck as I stare at the puddle by my feet. In it, I can see the grey sky clearing. The umbrella’s work is almost done. In fact, the light, misty drops that tickle its top are barely enough to worry about. Yet the umbrella is rooted to my hand. Perhaps, like I once needed it, it now needs me.

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