I am flooded again by the tears, the tears
keeping me feeling
weeping over memories that
Root us to
stories carried with us across parched lands
Pervasive, a precious longing
Hides behind tears—tears that are always close to the surface
always emerging as a groundswell from our deepest selves.
Colors of your new city
smells of wetness.
we walked up the hill together, looking over the ridge of torn earth, stone markers
having fallen away from hands that buried them long ago.
I walked to end of the road that ended in a field ending in a cemetery.
(this part is true, although it seems to just be an apt metaphor for an ending. A woman who cries as often as I do tends to use heavy-handed language).
Cupped by a dry tilting bowl, I drove up through the city
into sparse stony mountains.
(Yes, this is where I tell the story of how I am the rain. I am the plants. I am the tears that water them)
A smile found on my face was one that I had never smiled before.