They say when it rains the sky cries—
is there further grief?
one that passes— stifles— tears?
Clods in the corn fields
baked into rocks;
rocks broken— powdery dust.
And still, the wind blows dry.
Bans on fire, languishing earth . . .
Death beneath the sadness of the sky.

Tears finally came—
great torrents of rain—
washing the worrisome dust.

And as the sky cried,
my brother and I
danced with a joy that was just—
well, just too full
and too gleeful
to be coherent.

We ran.
raised our hands.
praised God.
and laughed.
That day the sky’s sadness
gave way to gladness—
gladness that came out in tears.

Ayana would love to invent a 27-hour day, but is far too busy maxing out her allotted 24-hours—often with a book of some sort.