It was December and warmer than usual
  when I cried my eyes out.
First I thought of my father, who died when I was seventeen
   and I cried for my lost confidante and my mentor,
Then came my children and my gentle breeze,
  and I cried for dreams unrealised and a death unexpected,
Then came the vision of my Father-in-Law
  and I cried for the theft of a beautiful, gentle soul,
Then came the loves I passed in my cold and confused youth
  and I cried for what was, could have been and simply imagined,
Then came the poor and the desperate strangers
  and I cried for the injustice and the severed cord of humanity
Finally I sobbed for myself
  for the sadnesses I endured and the failings that I am.
oh how I cried.

I cried with wine and without,
tears salty with the grapes of Spanish hillsides

I cried with tears so hot they steamed my glasses
with a fog of self loathing.

I cried until my tears were all but gone
  until all that was left was me
  and all my flaws and my humbled greatness.