Palimpsest of Rain

The gutters hold yesterday's names, letters dissolved into amber streams where light bends like a child's whisper.

I trace the pattern on wet concrete— each crack a story the stone refuses, each puddle a mirror that forgets its own reflection.

The trees know something about letting go, how branches reach toward nothing, how roots grip what's already falling.

And still the morning comes, with its ordinary brightness, asking nothing, forgiving everything.