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)