Sometimes the air is as clear
as tears. It happens in late
January during deep cold,
or after rain on a chilled
October morning.
Or is it that tears are as clear
as a winter day? An autumn
noon rinsed by creation in
all its theatrical might?
Perhaps what falls from
our eyes in joy or pain,
anger or relief, is the vision
of childhood, the wisdom of
age or the passion of wrestling
with the universe inside.
No matter. The tears wash the
things they must, and we
cherish the rest that follows.
