There is something almost soothing about waking up to the sound of a torrential downpour, listening to its steady percussion rhythms dancing tangos and two-steps over tired roofs and shivering, shrivelling leaves. Even with the curtains wide open, the light is unusually dim... and it is as if that queer, lethargic blue-grey between dreaming and waking has spilled over - just a bit - into Day.

...

“These are not Heaven’s tears,”
she says
“You can’t cry without eyes; it’s common sense
pure logic,”
And
glancing up, she spots
No mournful lids
to blink from blank white canvas.

--Still,
"It’s a shade too dark,
not quite white: Perhaps God
adjusted the monitor lights
too low:
The contrast is awful

But murky grey is probably better for
my eyes-"

(And see? See? These ones do cry.)