Soft patter of rain
like baby feet
scents of earth
and fresh wet fences.
Background voices murmur
and my music plays
but needing my
apartness
I drink in
sounds of silence
smell of rain
and the quiet of
this surrogate garden.
But that was summer rain.
Now the dark is down
and drops drench and blister
even on clothed body.
Soaking footsteps crash
through grey-green dusk
and still I stand
still as the garden
heads nodding to earth
light all but gone
stretching to pin point pain
I would die in that
wet grass.
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