Consolers

The weather cries for me,
Rain dancing to somber melody.
The sky, garbed in robes hoary-colored and gray,
Seems to me say, “Our ashes, our sackcloth,
We wear for you.
How could you feel such pain with no friend to go through,
The Arch of Misery, stacked up for the downtrodden,
Gate of the wretched in heart and in soul,
Winding roads through the realms of hurt,
Of rejection, grief, and dark things to skirt.”
And now, ‘cross the road, cedars sway and swell,
Born by the wind, yet crying still-
Like Brunhilde, for the loss of her lover fair-
Beauteous, yet powerful, solemnly mingled in their
Noble form.
And as pain, this comfort begins to allay,
The rain lets up as if to say,
“What has passed, is passed, it is over and done!
No time for sorrow-look out, look up, gaze upon Tomorrow!

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