Rain on a Window I didn't Open

The verse

It came without announcement

the way longing always does,

tapping at the glass

with its small, insistent fuss.

I watched it trace its fingers

down the length of everything,

turning the street into a mirror,

making the ordinary sing.

I thought about the latch.

I thought about the cold.

I thought about all the things

I'd wanted and never told.

The window stayed shut.

The rain didn't mind.

Some storms are only beautiful

when watched from behind.

The vignette

She had always loved rain more from the inside. There was something dishonest about admitting that poets were supposed to stand in it, arms wide, face tilted up. But she preferred the glass between them.

It started while she was making tea. A soft sound first, like someone scattering rice across the roof. Then heavier. Then the whole window was alive with it, each drop finding its own crooked way down.

She pulled her chair closer without thinking. The tea went cold. She didn't notice.

There was a version of her that would have opened the window, leaned out, let it soak her sleeves. But today she was content to just witness. To let something beautiful happen near her without needing to be part of it.

Sometimes that is its own kind of grace, the choice to watch, to feel, to stay dry and still be moved.