When it rains there are books that call to me, spending an afternoon with Frost, Dickinson, Rumi and Gibran.
And within our teacups whispers of your love for me. Why is it we are so quiet when it rains?
As is if listening becomes more important, as if the silence is sacred in our home.
I can count the raindrops falling, singing their softness, but even their fury
speaks of peace
in the comfort of our blankets
and the beauty of your face gently resting
as we both ponder the meaning of rain.
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2015, 2018, ancient skies
