Where Rain Settles

The gutters fill with small forgettings, each drop a word we never finished speaking. I watch the street blur into watercolor— how quickly the world becomes uncertain, how quickly we accept the blur.

My mother taught me to listen to rain the way you listen to someone leaving a room: not to stop them, but to mark the exact moment the door closes, the silence returns. Here on the porch, I'm learning still.

The leaves don't fight the weight, don't argue with being soaked through. They simply darken, become heavier, more themselves. Is that surrender or the deepest form of yes?

I think of all the rain I've forgotten, pooling somewhere in the architecture of what I was. Tomorrow the sun will erase these puddles. Tonight, they hold the sky's reflection upside down— a small rebellion, a borrowed light.