A bleary vision;
watching the after-rain settle in.
A hazy misting,
soaking greedily into our fabrics.
My child asks me a question,
“Why does the flower cry?”
It is water-kissed
in the hands of my child.
Our eyes search the plucked flower,
and one another
for just a twinkling.
“It does not cry,
but lets the rain rest on its body.”
A boundless parade;
breathing in be-sprinkled earth.
A regular display;
twining digits for warmth.
“I love you.”
Conveyed with a delighted cadence.
“I love you, too.”
Even lies have reasons.
. 
