8 of 122

by Just another writer

Rain falls
almost without breaks
southerly wind chills to the bone
a dull, dreary grey blanket clouds the sun

A puddle in the driveway reflects nothingness
murky, blank, distant
until I notice the drops
gently kissing as they touch down
breaking surface tension
creating little fountains
rising, falling
Concentric rings ripple outwards
white waves across an empty scene
filling it with excited movement

No longer just an ordinary puddle
but an inviting vessel
alive in its willingness
to accept and transform
that which was nothing special

Who knew a dark winter's day
could hold that kind of magic.

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Poetry: Puddles

by Just another writer

Poetry: Puddles

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