I shed them often, I shed them long, I shed them for anger, grief, joy, suffering, anything I can get my tear ducts going for.

And I don’t understand them.

If I shed them for the slaughter of children whose families I will never know, do the buds regrow?

If I shed them for my own deep inside hurts, did time turn back on itself?

I know they are a primordial vent but I don’t know what they’re for. They don’t do anything.

Except everything.

They cry to that oldest force, “I’m here, damn you, I’m here!” They are stronger than the rain and softer than a shower of petals.

I could not do without them.