The morning sun strikes a rain-drenched oak tree.
A gust of wind sweeps by,
shaking down raindrops from the boughs
as if helping the tree shed tears
and cleanse its heart; a summer storm
over the night
had torn its branches and leaves apart.
As the tree looks for solace in the sky,
I looked up at the tree and felt its tears
of raindrops falling on me.
I, in my turn, started to cry;
a storm of a different kind came
and shook me all inside last night too.
The tree and I cried together,
our tears falling on the ground
to mix with the soil from which
we have come to share
joy and sorrow in our times.
Tulip Chowdhury writes from Georgia, USA.
