It is not the fair-weather friend
who writes their name upon your heart,
but the one who, seeing the storm,
folds their umbrella shut,
choosing wet shoulders beside you
over comfort alone.

Anyone can walk in sunlight,
laugh in the soft meadow,
but it takes a rare and quiet courage
to stand ankle-deep in puddles,
to let the thunder bruise their sky
so you do not face the lightning alone.

Love is not the absence of rain,
it is the gentle hand that finds yours
when the world is unraveling,
the warmth that lingers in cold mist,
the voice that says without words:
“I will not leave you here.”

So bless the drenched, the loyal,
the ones who stayed when staying cost them dryness.
For their devotion shines brighter than any sun,
and their soaked clothes
are the garments of saints.