I hear the tiny drops of rain
one after the other
then together over the large
grown leaves of the noni.

They mumble a silent prayer
perhaps for a sunnier day
for the sky has been so dark
for a very long time now.

If the rain could only speak
what would it tell me?
And what if it does speak
and these tiny drops its words?

And by staying put on this mat
spread on this wooden floor
where I sit cross-legged
listening intently to whatever comes

I might, if I’m ever fortunate,
hear a whisper of a lifetime—
the rain speaking a barely audible
“I love you.”