The day begins with
a silence, the world
still turning, but you
would think it paused
to listen to this shy
whispering precipitation,
each drop a nudge
on the shoulders of leaves.
From my window, I
watch the white rain
fall like tiny whispers,
not quite snow, not
fully rain, a hesitant
conversation in mid-air.
It blurs the edges of
roofs, softens the trees.
We share a moment,
the planet and I,
both puzzled by
this gentle falling,
this undecided weather
that neither soaks nor
blankets, just hovers,
like an unfinished thought.
It coats the morning
in an uneven veil,
and the cat pauses
too, curious beneath
the sagging sky, this
child of rain and mist
fallen from a confused
cloud’s indecision.
Is this grace or just
a soft apology? We,
inside our warm boxes,
try to unravel the message
pressed across windows,
an ethereal Morse code
left by this transient,
melancholic drizzle.
By noon, it will pass,
and normal rain may
resume its standard
dialogue upon streets,
but now, it reminds me,
of whispered confessions,
lost between silence
and the need to be said.