The Rain Is Over

The rain is over,

Just drops now,

Off the lush summer trees, warm and in their prime,

Wet grass,

A new crop of small mushrooms bubbling up from the depths,

And a lonely house,

Silent witness to the grey half light,

Through broken windows and decaying curtains.

This house seems at home in the rain.

The slow steady beat marks time’s march since life was here.

A still place save for the small sounds of abandonment,

The gnawing of a mouse,

The bouncing of a fly beating itself against the only unbroken pane,

Nothing more,

Until the rain came to pour through the holes in the roof

And make puddles on a floor once cared for,

Now soft with rot.

Unswept corners haunted by lingering regret remember sighs,

Unrealized dreams encrusted with cobwebs and debris.

Does anyone watch this slow decay?

Who sits in emptiness?

Inhabits dusty nooks?

Watches through wrecked glazing to count the raindrops?

Do unseen eyes, called forth by diminished daylight, mark my gaze?

It is an uneasy peace here, lonely and sad,

A place where no one lives.

A short visit is enough.

The rain is over.