I played a game of finding the silence
between rain drops
that tapped loudly on the desert.
But soon the rain became tears,
the sky releasing its sadness
in thunderous, inconsolable sobs.
How magnificent the sky,
like all spectacular works of art,
open for interpretation, for revelation.
I saw wisdom in its grief.
There IS a time for weeping,
for allowing a wash to cleanse
each little pebble,
making it sparkle brighter in the sun.
This world is so dusty.
Overwhelmed with empathy for the sky,
on Sunday morning,
I joined it.
We became one in solidarity.
(For Poets United.)