The mountains are crying today.

Do you know how much water has to fall out of the sky

to see Mother Nature’s tears tumble down her rugged face?

I don’t know how many gallons per minute that is

because that’s a lot of math.

But I do know the symbol for infinity,

and it feels like no algebraic equation could give an answer

to the amount of water that’s fallen on my own aged face.

The mountains are crying today.

Do you know how long it takes for enough water to soak the earth

for a waterfall to suddenly appear like a magic trick?

I don’t know how torrential the storm has to be

because that’s a lot of weather.

But I do know the climate of heartbreak,

and it feels like it’s been a forecast of one disappearing act after another

since everything that seemed solid became different in a moment.

The mountains are crying today.

Do you know how heavy a force falling water can be

when it travels an unrestrained line and strikes the ground?

I don’t know what that is pounds per square inch

because that’s a lot of pressure.

But I do know the impact of grief,

and it feels like forever since I’ve stepped on a scale

to see how much loss actually weighs.

The mountains are crying today.

Do you know how quickly a landscape can transform

into a hillside that’s mostly made of water?

I don’t know how many hours it takes

because that’s a lot of time.

But I do know something about healing,

and it feels like my body has been the mountain that’s always known

whenever it is my soul needs to cry like a waterfall.