If rain could cleanse more
than the dirt of streets—
If it could rinse the marrow
where grief makes its home—
I would stand in its cathedral,
face lifted to the hymn of storms.
Clouds would spill their silver absolution,
each drop a monk’s chant,
undoing the knots
Sorrow tied in my silence.
Lightning would etch
brief scriptures across the dark,
reminding me that beauty and ache
both burn brightest before they vanish.
And when the sky’s voice quieted,
I would walk away lighter,
my shadow once again
a possession of the sun.
Dr. Ritu Kamra Kumar
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