There is no warning—
the sky, a sudden insurgent,
opens with
guerrilla downpour.
Torrential rain,
an unrelenting witness,
assaults the fragile spines of trees
and the quiet bones of houses.
Water spills, not as mercy,
but as a force that shatters
the brittle calm we cling to.
In the heart’s small orchard,
the fruit sags
beneath shadowed weight,
and the wind recites no lullaby,
only the relentless drum of rain.
We stand,
soaked to the marrow,
waiting for the silence to return,
knowing that this
downpour,
this insurgency—
will carve the landscape anew,
whether we wish it or not.
