The River of my Tears

I have come to understand that tears are not only born of sorrow.

As the years have unfolded, I find they rise more often now

from the quiet ache of gratitude,

from the love that lives too deeply to be spoken.

There are tears that bloom when the heart is full,

when beauty touches me so suddenly

that my breath forgets itself.

They fall like silver prayers,

each one a testament

to the grace that has carried me

through both shadow and light.

Looking back—so far back—

I see that all my tears

have traveled the same hidden river.

The tears of heartbreak and the tears of joy,

the ones that burned and the ones that healed,

were never strangers to one another.

They have always flowed from the same sacred place

where the soul remembers it is alive.

Perhaps tears are not weakness at all,

but love, unbound and unafraid,

pouring through us in its purest form.