In a faraway city in the mountains, monsoon
rains descend and it is soft typewriter sounds
on the roof all day and all night, rain
and fog all month; not a sliver of sun
returned, in a carriage or otherwise. Dark
pink bougainvillea blossoms give up
and plaster themselves closer to the wall.
Crevices flourish with signatures of moss.
They might not know it, but even they
have stories to tell. All is elegy,
departing or gone; incessant rain,
language the earth understands.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.