Nimbus clouds cradle clotheslines outside.
A map of silence is torn by pitter-patter
on tin roofs, muffled by beams holding
the ceiling. Water stains soften a wood panel
above, forms a shape of soundwave
that leaks in the middle—there is no need
to decipher the message of clouds.
Screen doors allow cold air to enter
so stand fans can rest. Windows, tightly shut,
are rinsed of their dust, of what took time
to let go. The sky is fickle
for bringing rain; the sun will shower us
soon, like a change of heart.
Its involuntary calmness
makes my open hand clench the grass
so hard I uproot it.