Sliver of soffit.

Under it I read aloud

words like rain.

They seep into

arid regions in me.

Tears of burgeoning sky

land on page 205.

“It’s not how we think of God

but how God thinks of us.”

Oh Lord, let drops

slip into the cracks

of mustard seed.

Rainy days and Tuesdays don’t always get me down. Praying for the dried out ones today.