Fine rain, slim and silver,
dapples the light,
drifts down screened windows,
grays the first of the month,
a gesture, so unmagical,
pales a child's face, leper-like,
mists the pear tree,
gently scolds the yapping dogs,
pins grocery store receipts
to the sidewalk,
taps softly
on heart-shaped leaves,
rings watery bells,
plays gently pianissimo
on the rooftop,
on a mother's voice,
on an open gate,
on swing seats,
on garden furniture —
listen close and
you can almost hear
the beat at the heart of silence.


© by John Grey.
Used with the author's permission.