Above, the clouds convene in grief,
So swollen, seeking some relief.
I raise my voice into the hush:
“What sorrow stirs this tender crush?”

And still, I say—cry if you must.
Tears are not treason. Winds are trust
I will not flinch beneath your pain;
Let sorrow fall. Let go. Let rain.

The sky turns green—a fevered hue,
As grief consumes both me and you.
But I will stand, though tempests call—
Your witness, shield, your quiet wall.

So storm, beloved, break and seethe.
I’ll hold the line. I will not leave.
When all your strength has come undone,
I’ll stay,
until
your light returns.