There are songs in the rain,
voices in the droplets,
lilts in pitter-patter
on rooftop weathervanes,
the soft ping on shingled
rooftops that keep us warm,
cozy despite the gray
sky above us tearing.

Puddles gather, earnest
to hold, they recollect
yesterdays’ reflections,
concentric circles bead
with every drop that falls,
awaiting the still face
at the end of the pour,
the break of sunlight through.

Chagall 2019

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