White Rain

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.