The sounds of raindrops on the window pane
come to me:
random, brittle, persistent;
the sounds of the oystercatcher, flying past in the rain,
come to me,
piping full of beauty and alarm;
I love the shape of the sounds,
reaching my ears on the air, connecting me.
The sounds of your words, calling me a fool,
come to me.
I love the shape of the sounds, emerging from your mouth,
complex interactions of breath and tongue and lips,
shaping waves of sound pushed in my direction,
connecting you with me.
A little later, I admire the meaning that arises,
woven from the sounds, coming through the air.
Ah yes, sometimes I am a complete fool,
and I am sorry.
And sometimes there is wisdom in my folly,
that you are not yet ready to see.
And if feelings of hurt, or shame, or blame, arise in me,
then they may, or may not, be something I need to allow.
My feelings are present in the sounds of the words,
as much as they are present in the sounds of the rain
on my window pane:
brittle, random, beautiful.