This too shall pass

This I tell you, my friend.
Hearts are meant to be broken
and mended.
Then cruelly broken again.
That is love's blessing upon us.
The rictus of pain you try to forsake
is only part of the symphony.
There's harmony and cacophony in this symphony.
What arrogant fools are we to
accept one and not the other?

Can we imagine,
in the forests of green,
if there never came a dry season,
the forests to grow again in renewed vigor
come rain?

True, rain is your heart's desire.
The scorching heat of the blasted pain
sears you.
Tears pool in your heart.
Those tears are your rain,
                        your heart's desire to love,
                   and your savings for growth,
when the seasons change to make
                                                   you radiant again,
                                                   your heart pliant again,
                                                   your touch verdant again.
For now,
              we take the season as it is.
It is love's blessing upon us.