Nobody started it, nobody is going to stop it. It will talk as long as it wants, this rain. As long as it talks I am going to listen. Thomas Merton, Raids on the Unspeakable (New York: New Directions, 1966), p. 10


(with echoes of The House That Jack Built)

Nobody stops you. You talk as long as you want.
Someone is listening. Someones are listening
to playlists they alone can hear. Thunder storms.
April showers. Waterfalls of joy. Cascades of sorrow. Downpours

that gave them puddles to jump in, that ruined their shoes on their wedding day
that broke the ruthless heatwave, that flooded the house, that drowned their car,
that shot the snowdrops from the deadbrown earth suddenly green and greener tickled
purple and pink and white, that roused the bugs and mice and rats, that filled the wells,
that painted rainbows on the sidewalk, that called the songbirds to your window sill.

Someones are always listening. Whether they love you or not.

Or anyway.

Or still.