Scattered pearls,
rolling die,
wet-tyre tracks.
Racing,
to different finish lines.

Would you like the rain,
if it asked before pouring?

If it was mindful,
not to dive into clothes,
drooping over the line.
Brutish blotting.
They had just about dried.

If it did not startle,
those shy fragrances,
and make them dash out,
from their earthy retreat.

If it sprayed evenly,
careful not to dig up puddles.
Or make raging seas,
for paper boats.

Would you like it
if it tip-toed past the window pane,
politely, not disturbing.
Not making drippy faces,
urging you out.

Silent curl,
of burning paper.

Ember glow,
writing in air,
with crumbling black.