Let it fall—
the sky unfastening its grief,
drop by drop,
onto the shoulders of the earth.

Cleansing isn’t always soft.
Sometimes it scrubs with salt,
peels you down
to what the pain left shining.

The river knows.
It doesn’t cling to what it carries—
it holds, it moves,
it lets go.

So let the storm come.
Let the winds unmake you
so you can gather yourself again,
cleaner, clearer,
a little more true.

Cleansing is a kind of remembering—
of who you were
before the dust settled in,
before the noise made a nest in your chest.

Wash your hands in morning light,
rinse your thoughts in silence,
forgive the mirror
and the face it holds.

This is not an ending.
This is the sacred rinse
before something new begins.