The old farmhouse window holds the rain,
a quiet place where time forgets to move.
One drop remains, as if to ease the pain
of all the storms that passed, yet did not prove.
The fields beyond lie still in fading light,
no footsteps cross the paths they used to know.
The wind has left without a trace of sight,
and taken all the voices long ago.
Yet in that glass, a single drop persists,
unmoved by all the silence pressing near.
It does not fall, nor vanish into mist,
as though it holds what others could not bear.
Perhaps some things are meant to simply stay,
when everything else slowly slips away.