The sky unbuttons, gray and wide,
and spills its heart in silver tide.
Each drop a whisper, sharp and cold,
a story told and retold.
The streets turn mirrors, bending light,
lanterns bloom in pools of night.
Roofs hum low with steady pain,
a lullaby of falling rain.
The trees bow down in darkened grace,
their leaves like tears on nature’s face.
The air is thick with scent and sound—
life renewed, and sorrow drowned.
And somewhere deep within the storm,
a quiet thought begins to form:
that even grief must someday drain—
washed clean beneath the heavy rain.
Therapy Bits 
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