Ralph Dumain

The Pattern

The pattern of raindrops was a poem.
I recited it at the window.
I was a child sitting by the piano.
The grownups were out somewhere.
But for glass I would have merged
    My innards into mist,
    Bereft of definite shape,
    A newborn in the world.
The clouds themselves were not talking.
Their emissaries only felt me out
    And all I could do was to taste them
    And maybe a half century later
    Taste their memory —
Solitude, then and now.

       — 1 am, Sunday, 27 October 2024

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