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Rain rushes down slick streets,
oily grades of inky water -
cobalt blue, teal, pyrrol orange,
washing away,
by product of many years;
could be, from tiny aqueducts inside,
since childhood, barrels
filled with cried tears -
from those of a newborn,
multi-faceted tears of a child,
to those of teen angst years;
'Something old, something new' tears,
pink and blue ones unleashed
as births heralded
Guttural tears shed
in deep disappointment,
of misunderstandings unfounded,
purple hued tears for bruises of the heart,
and the crueler kind,
evolved to black and blue
Presently a wiser gal,
common sense says she's through -
Bell weather forecasts more storms
seasons of tears and laughter
yet to arrive,
alternating with blue sky
tears of the bereavement kind,
by far the most salty, refined
Amazingly, Grace makes these
supposedly easier to abide
History dictates no immunity,
so cry a river implies
infinite supply,
prolific reservoir system engineered
to maintain, recycle, let go -
for tears can appear out of nowhere,
at the dawning or ending of each day
Strange I feel 24 years old again,
at heart, until I see
the reflection in a window pane
Clearly not a kid anymore,
but what bubbles up emotionally
is a desire to plan a surprise party
for myself __ to celebrate the rain
I loved the rain when younger,
puddles and rain on my face,
boots and umbrellas (still do)
But we make a down payment
on a place in the sun -
so why not flowers for the living
nurtured by the rain?
To be again that acrobatic girl,
who could walk on her hands -
ride horses on the sand for fun,
jumping everlasting waves
Rain in the northwest is common
but apparently not all people cry
It's a game I tell myself,
but winning's not the goal;
All that's recorded streams
videotape of truths and lies,
cleansed and rinsed by rain,
refreshes and heals on a dime,
it means finishing in style -
immersed in a sea of love,
what matters in the viscera of time
purple hued tears for bruises of the heart,
and the crueler kind,
evolved to black and blue
Presently a wiser gal,
common sense says she's through -
Bell weather forecasts more storms
seasons of tears and laughter
yet to arrive,
alternating with blue sky
tears of the bereavement kind,
by far the most salty, refined
Amazingly, Grace makes these
supposedly easier to abide
History dictates no immunity,
so cry a river implies
infinite supply,
prolific reservoir system engineered
to maintain, recycle, let go -
for tears can appear out of nowhere,
at the dawning or ending of each day
Strange I feel 24 years old again,
at heart, until I see
the reflection in a window pane
Clearly not a kid anymore,
but what bubbles up emotionally
is a desire to plan a surprise party
for myself __ to celebrate the rain
I loved the rain when younger,
puddles and rain on my face,
boots and umbrellas (still do)
But we make a down payment
on a place in the sun -
so why not flowers for the living
nurtured by the rain?
To be again that acrobatic girl,
who could walk on her hands -
ride horses on the sand for fun,
jumping everlasting waves
Rain in the northwest is common
but apparently not all people cry
It's a game I tell myself,
but winning's not the goal;
All that's recorded streams
videotape of truths and lies,
cleansed and rinsed by rain,
refreshes and heals on a dime,
it means finishing in style -
immersed in a sea of love,
what matters in the viscera of time
