Rain loosens the road
until every stone remembers water.
The river turns its dark shoulder,
carrying the weather away
one silver bruise at a time.
Under the willow’s soaked sleeve
a lantern keeps its appointment.
No choir, no witness,
only the patient gold of it
breathing against the cold.
I have come with questions
too heavy for my hands.
The night does not answer;
it listens, which is kinder.
The flame leans once, then steadies.
Hope is rarely thunder.
It is more often this—
a small room of light
held open in the weather,
a bright refusal at the riverbank,
telling the rain: not everything
will be carried away.
