Glass After Rain

The window holds what the storm has forgotten— each drop a small proof of sky that has moved on.

Light bends through them, refracts the room sideways. For a moment the ordinary becomes a prism, the mundane a cathedral of refracted hours.

They will evaporate. The afternoon will claim them back like a word returning to silence, like a confession taken back.

But now—now they catch the angle of the sun, turn it into something that did not exist before: this geometry of departure, this music of water learning to remember sky.