The cadence of rain
against the window:
waxing waning
waxing waning,
as thousands of odd-shaped
clear and light-catching droplets
scatter and hang on the pane,
until, one falls, too big,
and begins its downwards hurtle,
tracing a path
gaining size,
and speed,
racing with another snake of water
to a fruitless end near the windowsill,
while the ruthless grey clouds send more
to fill the empty spaces,
smashing them onto the glass,
and again the rhythm of the rain:
waxing waning,
waxing waning,
lulls me,
as I lie on my desk,
watching the sliding beads,
enraptured by the morphing patterns of
raindrops on my window,
so much like a dance,
a beautiful, pure dance,
and accompanied
by the natural beat of the torrents:
waxing waning,
waxing waning.