The beauty of rainfall to ease the open wound, to touch back the pain, to where it can be lost and home again.
The beauty of light as it cracks the cloud, firm and bold despite the harsh and loud.
What could be fear is ash and dust; what could be lost is moth and rust.
To fold back page upon page, to remember age upon age.
I could gaze but why the pain—the beauty of this moment, of this rain.