I come to you at night, rinse your dwelling, and rustle your clothing as you cross the street the next morning, yet you're not usually aware of me. I influence your plans, your moods, your wardrobe. I challenge your will. I inspire you. I make you well and sick, and I slake your thirst, then create your thirst. I color your face and sometimes, I give you cancer whether you get too much or too little of me. Haha.
There when you get married, determining where it happens. When you get buried, people may not be there because they're trying to avoid me. I had a hand in those flowers, too, surrounding your dead head and face.
Without the experience of me, you would feel unborn, in a good way. Yet the womb has weather of it's own: stress storms, digestive thunders, even the tumults of sex and crying, games of Twister and household dusting after pregnancy yoga class.