“If after every tempest come such calms,
May the winds blow till they have waken’d death!”
Churning, crisping, crushing, brushing
Scratching, scrunching – and then slightly blushing –
There was something slightly perfect ;
About the way, first, her eyes would begin to glaze –
Proficiently disguising the battle of chemicals
right behind, as she would raise
her head, and a tear-drop
finally took shape –
and then came the storm.
which had taken days to muster up and form.
They poured and poured ; a misery ; a tragic song
Leaking all she held
For so long, so long.
And when it was empty – all over – all done –
the sea which
up till now was dotted
with tiny troughs made from droplets
desperately trying to make their mark
was sober, serene
washed out, clean.
I began to miss wondering about the trumpets of grief that would rumble inside her mind as she stepped on the doorstep to welcome Summer.