The Silver Sheet

The Echo

The rain returns, a familiar drum,

On window panes, a tired hum.

It left, I barely noticed then,

Just sun-baked earth and dusty men.

Now, weeks have passed, the grass is dry,

Beneath a pale and endless sky.

And I, grown used to brittle days,

Forget the green in watery haze.

But here it is, a silver sheet,

The city washed, from head to feet.

The scent of earth, reborn and sweet,

A memory I thought obsolete.

It soaks the road, a darkened gleam,

Reflecting back a fractured dream.

The one where puddles mirror skies,

And life, refreshed, before my eyes.

I watch it fall, a steady pour,

Not quite the same as days of yore.

A little colder, a sharper sting,

A lesson learned the seasons bring.

The flowers lift their heavy heads,

From parched brown to blooming reds.

But something shifts within my soul,

A quiet grief begins to roll.

For though the rain is welcome here,

It brings a ghost, a silent tear.

A memory of laughter shared,

A love that vanished, unprepared.

The rain returns, a cleansing grace,

But washes pain across my face.

It soothes the land, it feeds the root,

But leaves me standing in the loot

Of what was lost, what cannot be,

A hollow echo next to me.

The rain keeps falling, soft and low,

A gentle reminder of what I know.