Sonata of Hope
The white noise, despite my needs
or wants, refuses to be contained,
creates the patter of rain out my one
window. I listen expectantly for the
rivulets that will begin to develop two
stories down, upon the metal rooftop
of the courtyard that separates one wing
of my building from the other. When the
shooshing doesn’t come, my ears relay a
bit of relief – misshapen by the whir of the
desperate wind, which is as imaginary as
the rain – to the synapses of my brain,
wherein this symphony was derived. It’s all
in my head, where it remains wholly contained.
