It begins as a tickle brushing past on the coat tail of an October wind. A thought that hasn't come to you since July, and that has suddenly reappeared clearly as though it never left. Rising from the asphalt just beyond your classroom door. It's slow rhythm an old grandfather clock, collecting in the crook beneath the stairs leading to your apartment as your make your way in.
Rain. The rain has come, and just in time. I'd nearly forgotten how sweet her voice was. And with it the desire to curl into myself, dig deep those images that have suddenly stirred from their long sleep and capture them all in some glass mason jar so I can bathe in their light. There are new CDs to be made, new journal entries to be written, new quiet moments to be shared in the quickly fading light before us.
The sage is saturated in the hills, its smell coming in through bedroom windows, lingering on pillow cases. Tonight I've chosen to write. Tonight, the rain has come and just in time.
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