a little space i call my own

the woman is deaf, she does not hear

.::Down poured the rain; the closed window streamed
.::With its cold tears; leaden hung the leaves
.::With a load of rain, heavier than grief;
.::And the white trumpets of bindweed flowers, the open
.::Trumpets of joy and summer were splashed with rain,
.::Stained like the faces of children scattered with tears.
.::There was no word, you rose and walked away,
.::And all I saw were the pale heart-shaped flowers,
.::And the rain falling, more silently than tears.

she comes not...