WHEN CLINGS THE SILVER RAIN
This poem is written to you, my readers, as a gesture only of affection and reassurance. Please read it with a light heart.
When wildflower covets morning dew, and clings the silver rain, remember how you almost knew the measure of my pain. My tears, they did not catch the light beneath the sun’s shy smile, for each had hoped the fading night might hold them for awhile. Then something quelled my mist of tears I know no reason why, for neither did you calm my fears nor comfort grieving sky. Yet still, I ask the rising moon if bashful mornings know that calling teardrops home so soon may let them finally flow, and cling to wildflowers til they send their solace wound in dew. Thru painted smiles, the brave pretend though all we feel is rue. But wildflowers asks the vines to share my story still untold, where love’s soft touch and tender care are never tinged with cold. The vines reply that never did the sun nor moon agree that only he could ever be the one to comfort me. The day and night, they gather to their sides their braided lights, But eventide would rather give my wounded heart to night. I needs confess the maiden’s name is one you thought you knew, for all the while I seemed the same though I was fooling you! In truth, my tears were spent at last, one fine and sunny day, and feast of laughter’s rich repast remains to light my way. Now Substack holds me thru the night til wakes the brazen morn. No longer does the bashful light pretend my heart is torn! The broken vow was long ago, I left him in the dust! Now crafty truth is yours to know, oh, laugh with me you must!
God.
With true respect
I feel insignificant here
This is so good
I'm amazed
You might bother
With me
Just a trier
Don't even qualify
As an amateur
Much to learn
Happily subscribe
That I may do so
Thank you
Hello Kelly. What moved me most in this poem is the way it carries sadness with such softness, as if the pain were something delicate rather than crushing. The images of dew, wildflowers and shy light make the grief feel almost tender, like a feeling held gently in the palm. I love how the speaker admits to hiding behind “painted smiles,” yet the poem never sinks into bitterness. Instead, it slowly turns toward warmth, toward the quiet relief of having survived what once felt unbearable. The shift from tears to laughter feels honest — not forced, but earned, like someone finally stepping back into their own skin. And that playful confession near the end brings a surprising lightness, as if the poem itself were smiling. It reads like a reminder that healing doesn’t erase the past, but it can change the way we carry it. In the end, the voice feels freer, steadier, and quietly triumphant.