This humid blanket,
the fever it gifts,
is all I can muse on,
and scribble on the wet floor.
The rain stopped last night,
the songs this morning,
and the still air offers a wry smile;
it tells me of today,
yet yanks me into timelessness,
where it shows
in infinite ways, love...
A few drops touch me,
others kiss the leaves
and rusty park benches;
soothing them first,
drowning them later.
-- Leslie
