The Fall Rain is for Widows

There is love in the rain
When it falls in the small
Hours of the growing morning.
It makes all the same,
Coming down in the Fall,
While widows start their mourning.

The sky cries for their losses
And offers up its trees and their leaves
The reds are blood for the broken hearts,
The oranges are for graves like crosses,
And the brown is a warning for life’s thieves
While the raindrops fall like darts.

It is cold and lonely early in the darkness
And no blanket can make that special heat
That settles the body but warms the soul.
The only cure for the heart’s failed fitness
Is family to love or a stranger to meet.
Company makes half empty glasses seem full.

But when no one is near
Or hermitting seems an answer
Then rain can fill the cup just as well.
When the sun is refused its clear,
So the moon stays a dancer,
The stairs forget they always fell

Even behind clouds the night remains,
Left lingering in an August downpour
For those sad hearts missing that love.
The widows shuffle, cowered over canes,
Across the bent and twisted hardwood floor
Of their darkened porches and smile at the gift from above.

The rain pours as a blanket
And covers and drenches,
Pooling on the cooled ground.
Without a single regret
It is swallowed and quenches
While thrusts die and then drown.

The morning is dark early
So it is harder to see the drops
While they plummet toward the shadowed grass.
The moon shines a clean white pearly
Onto the sleeping shrubs and tree tops
With amazing grace and timeless class.

Somewhere in the world beyond
There is always a golden yellow dawn.
But in the world that the lonely left-living mark,
Sometimes it is best to wakeup in the dark.