Wind and rain lash the window pane,
as combined they strike again and again.
And I watch the drops fall one by one,
into rivulets of water - carefully spun.
So I become bemused by it all.
And I treasure a simple pleasure as this,
as I contemplate infinity in simple bliss.
For are not our lives like the rain?
And I wonder what of me will remain,
once my drop has done it's fall.
For who do I share with this memory,
of lives and rain being ephemerae?
And try as I might to figure who,
my reasoning fails - leaves no clue,
of who would be interested.
I feel like a dormant bud nearing spring,
almost, yet not quite, ready for flowering.
But this nascent flower is on it's own,
trying carefully to face the unknown.
So I wait for events to transpire.
With a sudden shift the spell is broken,
and I'm back staring at rain in the open.
Perhaps the next time a like moment occurs,
I'll know who to tell what stirs,
in the grey rain that is my private universe.