Rain on the window — a short poem

The glass keeps its own small weather — silver threads that never hurry, each one finding the next one down. The lantern hums its orange note. The cat has folded into a comma at the end of a long day’s sentence. Nothing out there needs you now. Let the rain write the rest of the page; you only have to listen.

Read it once out loud, slowly. Then read it again in your head, and let the second time be quieter than the first.