Sometimes on a misty morning, I trace J's name on the window pane. I remember the first time I did it on a whim. J watched me and her face lit with happiness. "Mommy wrote my name on the window !" she squealed in delight. Since then she looks forward to mist at daybreak and will ask me to trace her name on it. I have no idea why this ritual has come to be so special for both of us. There are perhaps "muted meanings" in the impermanence of writing on water that are for me to discover.
Wet Poet by John Engle
Today the rain
writes warm, wet poetry
on my window pane.
Long, liquid lines
arrange themselves
in lyrical patterns
and designs
that flow
with muted meanings
that I need to know.
And as I read,
my words
are taught to fly
with music
brought to me
by cloud and sky.
Wet Poet by John Engle
Today the rain
writes warm, wet poetry
on my window pane.
Long, liquid lines
arrange themselves
in lyrical patterns
and designs
that flow
with muted meanings
that I need to know.
And as I read,
my words
are taught to fly
with music
brought to me
by cloud and sky.
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