drip from lacy fingers
rough limbs droop
yet the rain keeps coming.
In the stillness,
a low hum, the tune of the everyday;
time drags its feet
getting splinters from the hardwood floor.
The creaking of old timber
and the heavy sighs of an old home
fill the damp moments as they trickle
down the window pane; leaving behind
wet trails that we follow with our eyes
until we reach the final reservoir.