Rain Days


Those aren’t tears

falling from her eyes,

that is a summer rain.

That’s not pain

furrowing her brow,

that is a building storm.

Those aren’t the hands

of a servant

that suffers in silence,

those are the hands

of a goddess,

a lover,

a queen.


Clouds come in thick,

and in the morning

the Sun can’t break through,

but it is a welcome reprieve

from the heat

and the constant sorrow.

She tends her garden,

planted with the seeds

of her virtue.

Lost time is always gone,

but the day shares abundant.


Those aren’t the lines of worry,

they are maps of meaning.

Those aren’t greying hairs,

they are silver gilding.

Every day that stays

becomes a memorial,

a victory,

a D-Day parade.


Those aren’t scars,

that’s not darkness,

those aren’t lost memories;

they are the mists of time,

encroaching on the shores of life.

There is seldom any room

for more

in the midst of a summer storm;

the day is sufficient

unto itself.


The cool air

of the grey day

will soon give way

to the Sun again,

but until then,

the rain will fall

and the garden grow.

Those aren’t the days

of an encumbered

and burdened woman;

those are the rain days

that rejuvenate the soul.


HG – 2018



Leave a Reply