La Pluie

A few words exchanged,
even in distressing winter,
words of scorn and wrath and jibes,
we fought 'cause i disliked,
her dark depressing steps
on the bright threshold of my doorstep,
at morn, at night.

But summer was bright chatter
she would visit often,
and was at her playful best
would leave a basket of roses,
always, at my doorstep.

Here, she's always around,
only looking for a gap in time,
But she doesn't speak
(apart from scary thunder),
I wait and watch,
I try so hard to listen.

Nothing.
Not even the sound of a beating heart.

I sat in sheltered land,
and watched her go.
Wistfully, I pondered,
Maybe she talks a foreign tongue,
Maybe her voice to me is noise,
Maybe she finds me uninteresting,
Maybe she's just too shy,
Maybe she just can't find the right start.

I try so hard to listen,
Nothing.
Not even the sound of a beating heart.