The fall of droplets on my car’s windshield
sounds like the simmer of veggies when sautéed.
Because a rain fell on them in some field,
they sprouted, grew, and into meals were made.
The sound is comforting upon the pane,
reminding me while I drive to my job
of home-cooked meals made possible by rain,
with treats like buttered corn still on the cob.
But pattering on glass as drops fall on it
won’t water any veggies on a farm.
All that may grow from it may be a sonnet,
inspired by its soft, acoustic charm:
I write of how rain falling makes me feel
since often words too make a wholesome meal.

Mario A. Pita

Photo: Simson Petrol

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