Vincent van Gogh Rain
It’s frivolous, this rain,
with its unreasonable claims
on our silence.
You stalk the hallway, I crush
tears in my fist.
I’ve taken to rearranging books
on the shelf, first
alphabetically, then by the year
of a writer’s death.
I seem to love them more this way.
Prompt: Dwight at dVerse Poets Pub asks poets to write about the sounds of silence.