At least we can hear the rain.

It falls and pools along the house.

First in sheets, then in drops, and now in smoke-like mist.

No matter, there is constancy in your breath.

One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand…

Constancy in the slow small drum of your heart.

And inside the Earth itself, which moves us from side to side. Like a metronome, neither fast nor slow.

And in this very moment where angry waves break not far, as sea birds dive

from a blue-black sky.

And here in this house where light dims and voices fade and footfalls play in memory alone

At least we can hear the rain.