The rain cries empty tears on the window,
painting a watery catacomb on the glass
and pooling against the frame.
She sits looking through the lace-like wet,
a small doll on her lap.
It still holds the scent of her,
still bears the grey where she held her always.
Constant companions until
the storms came and changed everything.
When the levees broke and washed her away.
Now her life is dead and she no longer smiles,
Her baby is still gone.
And the rain still pours.