For after the storm who weeps upon the grass.
Who looks at once was, and calls its name.
Plenty are here to rebuild, plenty to remember.
But who is it who recognizes.
Pain was before, pain will be after.
But who will live through it.
Who looks out the window, after pain.
After the storm.
Who looks out at dusk, and notices how the purple clouds look like the shadows of mountains on the horizon.
Who reminisces on days not so long ago when those mountains laid on the road ahead.
Promising heights unimaginable.
Promising shelter in the unknown.
To girls struggling to continue after the past two… no, three years,
Sometimes clouds are mountains,
Calling back to the warm embrace of home, and the beauty of the desert.
Bringing to light the true beauty of the desert, rarely recognized.
That even after months with no rain,
Flowers sometimes bloom.