Someday, you may find the rain knocking on your window, seeking shelter for the night. ‘I am being hunted like a wild beast,’ it may say in a small voice dripping with the smell of desolation and musty fables.
You have known it your entire life—this rain that once was lemon scented and starlight crisp.
It takes refuge under the rocking chair, gathers by the legs of the master bed and pools by the window. Sometimes when you sleep, it rearranges the clouds over your eyes and leaves you dreaming long after the sun reaches its zenith.
Slowly, you find that rain has taken over the house, whispering its magic to the walls and the roof. The study table is the first one to give in, it weeps into your old books. The bed sprouts new foliage from its bog-depths, and the window panes leave for the forest where they came from.
paper boat . . .
a grizzled poem sails
beyond my grasp