Loss . . .

Long fingers of dark
swept by furious air above and below,
contorting crystal vapors that I see.
They are dry, though,
so I am supplying the rain—
my wet cheeks,
my breaking heart,
my mourned loss.
How can so much pressure mount in one weak heart?
Electricity streams through neurons, filling my head with thunder.
And the tears.
They come and come and come.
Death is not the only kind of loss.

1-16-12