to be still by the windowsill

by Steven J. Serafiani

I used to have a relationship with windowsills
the cracked ones
would sit beside them
my nose to mesh
the warm pre-rain spring air
the breeze would pick up and blow and curl those lace curtains just so
the soft thunder rolling from the west
over the cornfields
over the streets
right to my stoop
fascinated by the dark clouds inching away the blue sky
minutes to hours
the stillness symmetry
then that first rain drop
then the second
the third
the pitter patter
the breeze would pick up
a quiet woosh being hurried through a few inches of space
those curtains rising and draping over my face
then the rest would flow
making damp the sidewalk
the driveway
the grass
heavier and heavier
I found solace
the gutters running metallic with rain
the neighborhood streets had cleared
the bikes left in yards
the joy washing over
the quietness I longed for
now deeply long for
to be still by the windowsill.