Some days, lying on my bed in the dark, staring up at the ceiling,
leaves an interesting impression and lasting feeling.
A rainy afternoon with pellets hitting the window,
the intoxicating smell, throws me into limbo.
It’s the quietest at night, if I lie here long enough,
the silence gets louder and louder, painting the walls in a huff.
The hazy glow from an outside street lamp,
leading the night walkers back to their camp.
I could listen to the rain all night long, I could count,
how often the wet pace changes, a reason to dismount.
When my feet are on the ground the rain sounds different.
Lying back down and hearing the drops, comparing this, is exhilarant.
Why would anyone choose to listen to the rain while standing?
The beautiful sound of weather, can be better heard within a certain landing.
Soft and horizontal waves over my stretched limbs,
I whisper to the rain, “come in, come in.”
Cover my body in your dewy moisture
Use the breeze to reach my skin, the rain replies, “we can’t avoid her.”
Slowly the silence breaks
revealing a deep drum beating along with the aches.
As the rain touches my forehead, slides down my cheek,
I stare at the ceiling for what feels like a week.
I am touched by your presence, you reached so far for me,
and I will hold my position, waiting, listening, until you set me free.
Emma Wisdom 
Bert and I lived in a large canvas tent in the summers in Gimli after Andi and Sam were born and took over our bedroom in the cottage. Those were fond memories. Roberta was so good at getting up in the morning and opening up the tent and sweeping and making beds. Rainy afternoons were spent lying on our cots listening to the rain on our tent and reading or playing cards. Sometimes we would go to grammas cottage to have a snack and visit. The sound of the rain was way different in her high ceiling cottage or the sound of the rain on my rain coat hood as we dashed from the tent to the cottage. Thanks for bringing back the memories.