And like rain, she had worth;
not a squall, so wild appears,
to cleanse the bitter earth,
but soft, as frugal tears;
as if the sky did but weep,
then, aware of her release,
now closed its eyes to sleep,
as her tears drift with ease,
for one last mist of sorrows;
and like rain, stippled landing,
on mirrored glass she borrows,
of puddles, still left standing;
‘ere tread soft her footfalls,
now hazed with water shed,
rippled o’er her garden walls,
years of pain, now long dead;
reflections of a sullen moon,
glazed o’er her weary eyes,
her tears but fell too soon,
and like rain, she left the skies.