Evening settles -
a gray veil descending
over Boulevard and Street.
Rain begins softly,
no thunder, no warning wind -
only a patient hand.
Lilacs breathe again,
their wet perfume returning home,
roses bowing low.
Grass thick with silence,
too lush for any mower’s blade,
stands like a prayer.
The rain taps its hymn
on tin, on glass, on leaves -
each note lingering.
Water threads the cracks,
roots drinking in the dark.
The street hums with streams.
Inside, lamplight glows.
The table waits in quiet,
plates warm to the touch.
A kettle hums low,
steam rising like a benediction
of sugar and tea.
Bread cools on the counter,
its crust gold and cracked -
the house breathing.
Floorboards sigh beneath
the slow returning of feet,
and the beagle shakes off rain.
The scent of lilac and earth
drifts through the open door,
home again.
The clock ticks softly,
measuring nothing urgent -
only the comfort of being.
Outside, the rain endures -
gentle, steady,
as if it knows what to keep.
GBS
2025
0 Comments