They stand by the door like waiting suns,
brilliant little soldiers against the gray—
those yellow rain boots, scuffed with puddle prints,
dripping stories from cloud-kissed days.
Each step a splash of defiance,
a rebellion against the hush of storm.
Childhood marches through mud, bold as brass,
while thunder claps like clumsy applause.
They are more than rubber and rubbery grin—
they are canaries in the coal mine of memory,
warning us not to forget laughter,
even when skies bruise and rivers rise.
In them, she danced.
Spun circles in a downpour,
arms flung wide like the sky belonged to her,
hair soaked, face lit like dawn.
Now they sit by the door still—
silent suns gone soft with time,
a bright hush in a house of whispers,
waiting for another storm… or a child.
