The drops arrive like memory, each one a word the clouds have kept, falling slow on glass and leaf.

We learn to love the grey— that softening of light, the way the street forgets to shine, and stillness finds us in the dark.

Nothing is more patient than the rain. Nothing asks less and gives so much: the sound of small returning, the earth drinking what it lost.

Even sorrow tastes like this— quiet, without edges, washing everything back home.

The sky returns what we have given it. The sky returns, and we are still.

And after—petrichor.
The earth remembers rain
the way the body remembers grief:
quietly, from within.