On rain-soaked days I roam through parks alone,
deterred not by deluge or spattered spray.
Drops plummet from the lofty pine trees' cones
as moisture's wrung, then spun from clouds dark gray.

The limbs of elms cathedraled overhead
create a silent sanctuary where
a troubled soul like mine can grieve the dead,
unleash the pain I cannot, dare not share,

but find a place on paths amidst the trees
wherein I choke back guilt, though not the screams.
"I should have died with you. Forgive me, please!"
Yet Nature never censures or condemns.

There's comfort, peace at last in solitude
and balm for tortured souls in quietude.