The train of late night storms left the valley in tatters –
the last of the spring blossoms
lie scattered beneath the trees.
broken twigs, dark and wet,
point toward rose petals
floating still in shallow puddles.
The smell of Earth
rises with the sun
and the grass seems greener.
Golden rays shine on swollen buds
illuminating the promise of new adornment.
The rain has come
With clear eyes,
I can see once again –
tempered by the tempest.