Words.

When The Sky Cried
It was all still
at first.
The air not moving,
the wind was not
breathing very heavily.
Then, a quiet sniff or two
of thunder.
I looked, wondering if
everything was alright.
A drop fell.
Followed by another.
And another.
A slight downpour ensued,
muddying the soil
of the rose garden,
and I rushed to prevent
the garden from
turning into a mess.
I looked into my
sky and thought
that nothing should
fall like that,
save the morning
or night,
the times when people
yawn in waking or sleeping.
The rain did cease,
not without leaving its
trace behind,
but the roses benefited,
and blossomed even more.

The Sunday Rain
Spilling over from the night before, it continues, persists in trickling down window panes, vertical or slanted. The tapping of the raindrops a little softer now on my windows as compared to what I heard yesterday night, on the slanted panes, its lullaby lilting along lulling me into a shared sleep. I wait now. The silent drops glide down, blurring the border separating inside and outside.