27 February 2011

February Rain

Patter, patter, patter.
The sound of the rain
on my rooftop.
Occasionally my silhouette
casts itself upon my closet
doors as the sky momentarily
sets itself ablaze.
Cars go up and down the street
and I think about the way in which
they're direction as oncoming or
departing sound so different;
The kinds of wonder they would
themselves never invent.
A transformer blows,
leaving in it's wake
unnatural noise, a whirlwind
of curses and darkness.
I write on, thankful for batteries.
I'm cozy in my brick box,
staring out the window
beyond my desk, absent-
mindedly forming
a singularity between
my thoughts and the paper.
The rain is refreshing, alive
in the midst of this winter,
that muffles and silences so well.
Though I do feel sorry for the man
with the rolling suitcase,
soaked to the bone, likely furious.
He sees tonight in such different light,
as so often our lives go.

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