Sometimes
If I focus on the rain,
I can hear it whisper.
I can’t make out what it’s trying to tell me,
Or if it’s for me to hear at all.
I don’t want to be rude and interrupt,
So I’ll sit at the sill and admire at a distance,
and as the aftermath of the storm leaks from the gutters,
a million secrets trickle down my window pane,
Condensate,
Then disappear.