the rain has ambled on today
like a good chapter that lingers
over a spell of time.
Suppose hidden voices of authors endowed within
glossy mirrors on the floor
holding spheres of sky
whisper on the brink of winter
a lantern for your hand.
For I have a feeling each overlooked
spillage of clouds could confess something so significant
every worthy quote would arise
without a word.
And isn't that idea enough to make you
cry when the small fawn stares at you,
softly there in the sodden wood
rain rolling off her back
telling you all this
without a word
yet
without a word
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