Battling the rain

When I was six, my mother said to me. Susan, come into the verandah. Stop battling the rain. I had snubbed the drizzle in the garden as I collected flowers with a glisten, wantng one more and yet another, and soon found myself drenched, my hands clenched with stalks and in a tidy fix. My mother said, Susan stop being bad or you'll make me sad. You'll be sick and weak if you keep battling the rain. So come under the awning and you can pick a flower when the morning is fine and the bright sun shines, then you may play in the garden once again.
Now in later years after a million tears, flowers are sown from the scent of my pain. They flourish in secret together with thickets, away from the storm of my strengthened form. But as for me and what may be, I am still once again, battling the rain. - susan abraham