Another entry in the 100 x 100 project, I’m coming up on nearly one quarter of the way through Bradbury’s 100 stories.

I was struck by the image of someone weeping alone, but not realizing why they are crying.  This was the result.

Tempest (@ Scrawlers)

Taking my hands from my face, I stare at my wet fingers,
confused by the moisture. Crackling thunder startles me,
ending my contemplation, drawing me to the window
to absorb the ongoing tempest and feel its fury.

Approaching my reflection I see great teardrops on my face.
Had I been out in the downpour? My tentative touch
to my cheek does not disturb the torrents of water
streaming across the outside of the pane,

masquerading as tears for my mirror image.
I understand. It isn’t the rain.
Thunderstorms, for all their rage and rancor,
cannot cause this overwhelming sorrow.

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