a poem a day for a year #168

by Amy Turn Sharp


I read a random fact the other day,
I learned that we produce less tears as we age.
The older we get the fewer tears.
I would like to offer up a statement of rebuttal,
a showcase if you will, 
of me and my tears.
My older tears.
The ones that float boats.
The ones that could drown you.  
The ones that come like rain.