Rain remembers every roof
it has rehearsed upon,
every rusted fire escape
that answered with a song.
It carries gardens in its sleeves,
the mineral breath of stones,
the names we wrote on window glass
and thought the night had lost.
By morning, all is rinsed and bright—
the gutters speak, then still.
Only the earth keeps listening
beneath the quiet hill.
I step outside. The clouds move on.
A silver hush remains,
and somewhere in the loosened air
the world begins again.
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