1, 2, 3—

The rhythm of the rain lets you think,

And thinking leads to memory,

To a time when you were small enough

To care about counting raindrops.

The patter on the window

Is a lullaby you'd forgotten,

A song your mother might have hummed

While storms passed overhead.

Each droplet falls like a heartbeat,

And you realize

You've been holding your breath

Without knowing it.

This rain doesn't judge

Your slowness, your sadness,

The way you've let years slip past

Without really listening.

It just falls, patient and forgiving,

And suddenly you feel

Held.