Stacey Dye

And the rain comes down again.
A wall of my tears
cascades over the eaves—
sheets of water with no end
pummel the withering earth.

I don’t know from where the sadness
comes or what brings it forth.
I only know it has the strength
to humble me
when I least expect it.

Soon the rain turns to sprinkles.
I find them comforting,
like the last sobs of a child
as her mother rubs her back
at the end of a long, long cry.

Cathartic and exhausting,
the deluge is over.
Time to close my eyes and sleep
that deep but troubled sleep
after teardrops fall.