In quarantine, 

            we distinguish shades of morning showers. 


Multi-faced rain—

Each downpour, you bring a novel hue: 


The white skies of misty days, 

when clouds coagulate into plaster, 

a lid over fogged earth.

The silhouette of trees

like stencil against

your alabaster backdrop. 


The polka-dotted summer rain,

when grey splotches stain a periwinkle overhead.

Your showers freshen us—

breath under blue offer

refuge after

passing floods of your grey. 


The charcoal of your 

merciless days. 

When we wake to drum beats 

against our windows;

When we hear drips of you 

invading our home 

unwelcome through cracks in our rooftops;

When we search for morning 

and night has left residue.

Your darkness showers into our eyes—

We hold you in our breath 

until your drum beats cease

and we exhale you into stillness.


In quarantine, rain,

you join us through window screens—

your shifting moods a presence

in our isolation. 


            Today, I watch crimson leaves

            brush against a linen sky, 

            shivering bristles in mist. 


            And I wonder 

            if they, too, plead for relief 

            or if they relish the fog 

            and find clear moments sweeter 

            after mornings like this.