Rain. Again.

Clouds pass dark sliding into white

Rain is coming

Air is soft humid caressing skin

Like your hand on my arm

I dont care about anything today

Except watching the clouds

Gathering moisture as they move across the bay towards the distant mountains.

There they will rain down upon the parched grasses and trees

In sweet release. To feed a thirst,

as nature does…balancing life and death in cycles which should speak

of the seemingly sudden loss of you.

But I watch the clear geographical cycle wondering whether grief has a language in these clouds or the far off mountains

Where transformation is constant without emotion

Unless the rain on the hills really is

Tears, crying at the passage of space and time.

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