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.