Rain

Don't mourn the passing of the rain

It blossoms from the green fields around us

where children play

And count "she loves me, she loves me not"

on its petals

And where, in its shade,

lovers count their unnumbered blessings

And each others' charms

And where, more slowly, their parents walk

and count the mingled years of joy and sorrow

Those past and those yet remaining -

unknown

and uncountable before tears of remembrance

again become the rain

(Feb 2004)