Mistaken miracles

What if the rain
is not a blessing,
but a silent confession?

What if the sky—
vast and voiceless—
spills itself
only to be noticed,
and we, blinded by need,
mistake its ache for generosity?

It cries in rivers,
soft and unrelenting,
but we call it fortune—
green fields,
drenched soil,
wishes granted.

We do not hear the sorrow
in its rhythm.
We only see the bloom
and not the breaking.

The sky weeps
not to give,
but to be seen—
to be held
in the way only silence
can hope for.

And maybe
we have always misread grief
as grace,
always thanked the storm
for raining
when all it ever wanted
was to be remembered.