“It is not everyone,' said Elinor, 'who has your passion for dead leaves.” - Jane Austen, Sense and Sensibility

 

The air was thick and smeary.

The rain,

so soft,

seemed to be floating,

never falling.

It crept under her umbrella,

teased the back of her neck,

coaxing tendrils by her ears.

Almost a lover’s touch.

This rain got as close to her,

closer than her clothes,

but she would never tilt her head back,

mouth open wide,

and welcome it into her being.