It’s the rain.
It patters on the roof of the RV
Soft blossoms of water
Over the metal.
It’s the clicking and clacking.
Little noises that make my writing real.
Inherited memories
Of a type-writer.
It’s her laughter.
My sister’s voice carrying over
All my hurt
And I am accepted.
It’s the crackle
Of my candle’s flame.
Scents of sugared pastries
Pour out.
It’s so many small things,
Here and there, and I forget
For brief moments,
All the parts of me that remember.
What kindness lives in comfort.
And for some of us,
Our only taste of Peace.
And we are grateful.
About the Creator
B.T.
It wouldn't do not to see...
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