Isn’t, but certainly was

With wistful eyes he stared at the grass,
Plucks a strand, now a bunch he does take.
Playfully, she ruffles a set of wet leaves,
A moment’s shower taps him awake.

What stole his colour, she asked,
But his silence wasn’t keen to give in.
She nudged him once, then nudged him twice,
He laboured his lips to half a grin.

Swiftly he turned his eyes away, yet,
Not before they betrayed an anguish past.
The rains reminded him of old love, he said,
A love, he had hoped, would forever last.

“A summer ago I had seen her last,
As she ambled into an alley deep.
Her love, she cried, had always been true,
But ‘Alas!’, she had other promises to keep.

I struggled with misery, days on end,
The void I believed would endless stay.
And yet now, as I think of the times we spent,
The love I felt then has ebbed away.”

“Was it true love - that faded so quick?”,
His peering eyes beseeched her to say.
She bent her hand into a nearby puddle,
A few drops of water, on her hands, she did weigh.

“A passionate storm brought these here, yet,
The relentless sun shall soon take them away.
The downpour was still as true as it can be,
And ever so surely will return another day.

The winds shall carry these to another earth,
Joyful relief to another being it shall bring.
That it should slowly vanish takes nothing off its truth,
But solemnly testifies to its once wholesome being.”