Evening settles -
a slow gray veil descending
on Boulevard and Street.
Rain begins softly,
no thunder, no sudden wind,
only a patient hand.
Bushes lean outward,
their leaves glistening with weight -
a shiver, then still.
Lilacs breathe again,
wet fragrance filling the air,
spring returning home.
Roses bow low down,
petals heavy with the rain,
skirts trailing in mud.
At the garden’s edge
potentilla blooms linger -
small yellow lanterns.
Grass, tall and thick now,
too lush for mower’s passage,
quietly stands guard.
The rain taps its song:
carport tin, window glass -
each note lingering.
Water follows cracks,
the worn line of the pavement,
roots drinking beneath.
At the corner seam
of Southern and Kenosha -
the street hums with streams.
By the carport roof,
the barrel fills and spills over -
nothing more needed.
Inside, lamplight glows.
The table waits in silence,
plates warm to the touch.
A kettle hums gently,
steam curling, carrying
the scent of tea and sugar.
Bread, freshly baked,
its crust golden and cracked,
sends warmth into the room.
The floorboards sigh underfoot,
soft rugs pressing against tired toes,
hands finding the familiar.
No voices tonight,
only the comfort of forks,
ceramic on wood.
Rain blurs the windows,
a gentle curtain drawn tight,
sheltering the room.
The light from lamps drifts
across the table and walls,
making shadows soft.
Outside, the earth drinks,
puddles forming in the street seams,
water threading roots below.
A door opens, then closes -
Bruegger shakes off the rain.
Air smells of wet earth, grass, and beagle
cold spring brought inside.
Lilacs’ wet perfume
drifts to the doorframe, mingling
with the beagle’s joy.
The old clock ticks softly,
measuring nothing urgent,
each second a quiet friend.
Curtains drawn back slightly,
a glance at streetlamps shining
through the rain’s silver veil.
And all that remains:
rain going on, going on,
without end, without need.
GBS
2025
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