MargenRain speaks a language we all understood as children and forgot when we learned to be in a hurry.
It falls on the roofs with a teacher's patience, repeats the lesson in every leak, spells out against the glass a long word that means stay.
As a child I translated it effortlessly: the rain said puddle, said paper boat, said today the soul has no school.
Then I grew up and the rain started saying traffic jam, saying my coat got soaked through, saying another afternoon lost against an office window.
But tonight, at last, I listen to it. I turn off the screen, the excuse, the noise, and I let it fall without translating it, without demanding it mean anything useful.
And then the old language comes back, the one that asks for nothing, the one that only insists, drop by drop, that being alive was always this: a roof, a murmur, and someone inside willing not to run.