Sky Tears


there is a deep sadness in the rain.

I feel it in my belly,

and I ask it to be kind

to those who feel the pain of the sky

when it cries.



When I was little, I was the curly haired girl.

It was a point of fascination, my hair, a reason to love me more than the reasons that already existed inside my little girl heart.

I wonder, now, how many adults looked into my eyes and really saw me there. Looking back, my hair was the perfect ‘surface conversation’ starter.

And then there was me, waiting somewhere inside to be seen.

Yesterday, a beautiful little girl at the pool was in tears. One of the soft ones. Like me. The adults saw her, of course, but they didn’t really see her, I don’t think.

I wished she would look at me.

I wished that she would see that I could see her. And that I thought she was beautiful just the way that she was.

I would have told her that she’d probably always cry a little more than some, but she would also be kindness, and heart, and magic.

I’m pretty sure that would have made her smile.



There is a little boy in this world who began his life within my body.

He turned six today.

I often think of the way his slippery little body looked as it squiggled into the world at my feet. Those are the times I go to his little mop of hair and whisper: I love you. My goodness, I love you, little man. 

Sometimes I hope that I don’t break him with my jagged edges; my angry moments, my sad moments, my imperfect human moments—the ones I can’t hide no matter how hard I try. And he is six, so I hear all about the moments.

But none of them really matter because: love.

Mine for him, his for me.

My baby.

He is six, today.

My baby blue-eyed boy is six.

close up of girl writing
Photo by Pixabay on







I see you there,

squinting at the mirror

of not good enough.

And I wonder if you know

the beautiful creases on the face of you

make up the whole.

And you think,


that you are flawed.

Because you have been angry?

Because you have been sad?

Because you have been confused,

or not there,

or completely off the path of ‘neat and tidy’ days.

You must know this.

You are as you should be.

Here, where the path is overgrown.

Where the light is brighter and the shadows darker.

You belong here. Perfectly imperfect.

Just as you were always meant to be: