can I be 

                   soft 

like the rain, 

clinging to the grass;

needles, pins, scissors

she gathers the outgrown, the too often mended

cuts apart the once whole

searches out greens, lavenders of distance

I believe in reincarnation.

What would you come back as?

A lion, I think.

I'd come back as, like, a sweet guitar riff.

—Overheard on a Toronto Subway