When a woman cries like a river. 
She is not crying for that upset moment.
She is crying for the moments long ago past, where no tears wept.
She is crying for the moments gone, where she cried inside.
She is crying for the moments of suppressed memory, 
where her cries were unheard.
Moments of cryful regret.
And she stopped crying to no degree.
The river sang, gave oxygen, wood floating down stream,
Flowing naturally, gracefully,
Mountains moving, trees dancing, branches drumming, twigs skipping,
Earth and dirt surrounding,
Engulfing and supporting,
Helping her breath,
Unbeknownst to the river,
And the soul of the river,
Sucked by a straw,
Leeches crawling and snarling down under,
Arising above the river,
Multiplying,
Until that moment when the river realized,
Eyes of a new dawn,
Rainbows spread their wings,
A woman stood and cried like a river,
For the first time,
For the first time it all went away.
Evil will prey upon those who are unable to weep,
Shallow valleys thick storms await,
High mountains deep plateaus,
Where a woman stood and cried no more,
Deep platelets began to form when she cried no more,
No backbone,
Standing up,
Grabbing herself by the shoelace and pulling onward,
Reaching and stretching forward,
Laced so tight continuing to move forward,
Sweat dripping from the pores of ....
With all her might...
She cried like a river again.
She stood again,
Cried once more,
For the soul of the river never dies,
And continues to run through the canals,
On hidden back roads,
For the soul of the river never stops to cry,
To stop...  is to not flow,
The soul of a river is a woman’s voice,
Her prayers, her grace, her humble ways,
The soul of the river is her history,
Her strength, her story,
Only when a woman can cry like a river,
Will she know and be...
Her own soul of a river,
Her own soul of tears,
Her own soul of ability,
Her own soul of peace,
When a woman cries like a river,
She must not only cry for that upset moment,
But, for many more to come,
Embracing our souls as women.