A window is a boundary, and the speaker of this short poem begins on the wrong side of it: indoors, watching February rain run down the glass. Six lines later the weather has changed, and so has the speaker. The poem's subject is the aftermath of leaving someone ("now I've left you"), and its central idea is that sadness doesn't have to be wiped away to be left behind. It can be transformed. The poem never says why the speaker left or who "you" is. That silence keeps attention on the movement from one feeling to another.
The shape of the poem acts out that movement. There is no rhyme scheme and no regular metre, so the poem reads like thinking aloud. But the line lengths tell a story. The first two lines are long and trailing, with the weight of someone who cannot stop looking at their own misery. Then the lines shorten: "The dew is now sun touched and glistening" is almost half the length of line two, and the final line shrinks to three words. The poem tightens as the speaker recovers. The sound of the first line helps too. "Drip drip drips" is a stutter, and the third "drips" picks up an extra *s*, as if the rain were piling up on itself. The last line is also a list of three, but its commas are light and forward-moving, a different kind of repetition. There is also one quiet sound-link: "part" at the end of line three and "heart" two lines later. The clouds part, the speaker has parted from someone, and the heart that results is the poem's final image.
The imagery rests on one pair of words. The mist "coats" the garden and tears "coat" the speaker's face. A coating is a surface layer, something laid over the real thing, and the parallel makes the outside world and the inside self mirror each other. When the sun arrives, the verb changes. The dew is not coated but "sun touched," which is gentler and more personal. It is also the same water in a new state. Rain, tears and dew are all droplets, and the poem suggests the speaker's grief hasn't vanished but has caught the light. That is more convincing than a sudden cure.
Small words carry a lot of the emotion. "Only" in "I think only of my tear coated face" shows how narrow grief makes the view. "As if the sky is trying to heal me" is hedged, and the speaker doesn't claim the weather really cares, only that it feels that way. That tentativeness sounds honest. Then "now" appears twice, first for the dew and then for the heart, tying the outer change to the inner one. The closing participles, "Sparkling, changing, growing," are unfinished actions with no full stop in sight. The poem doesn't announce that the speaker is healed. It describes a heart still in motion, and "growing" in particular points forward, like something in a garden.
The poem is not technically elaborate, and the page carries some quirks. The title spells "Febuary" differently from the "February" in the first line, and "opon" appears for "upon." It is signed with a pen name, and the text offers no other information about who wrote it or why, so any claims beyond the page would be guesswork. What the poem does well is plain. It shows grief and relief in one small scene, without lecturing. Its most telling choice is the last comparison, which gives the speaker the activity of the dew, "sparkling, changing, growing," rather than the passivity of someone being rained on. For a reader who has ever felt the odd mix of sorrow and lightness that follows a leaving, that small shift from watching the weather to resembling it is the poem's most recognisable moment.