Rain Ritual

The sky ripped open this morning,

not a soft drift, but a tear.

Water sluiced down the pane,

a thick, moving sheet

that turned the streetlights

into blurred, gold coins.

I didn't think. Just moved

the armchair, worn arms

groaning a little, closer.

Pulled the wool,

smelling faintly of old dust

and comfort, over my knees.

Then watched.

The trees outside, dark

and slick, their branches

waving like long, wet hair.

The way the world

just slows.

And for a while,

I can just sit,

and let the outside wash

what’s inside.