Cold rain is pounding roofs, spattering windows, puddling up in dips and hollows, threading quick rivers down the glossy asphalt.

The cat lazes in a chair by the fire. The kitchen is scented with coffee and toast.

And I am thinking of the poems of Betsy Sholl, especially this one, which broke my heart when she read it aloud last night.

from Prisoner Bonhoeffer 

Executed April 9, 1945, Flossenburg Concentration Camp 

Better be wordless, he thinks, better Bach's swell
and diminuendo, cantus firmus, not quite drowned out 

as notes rise and fall, until--is this it?-- 

the rising and falling are one, God in the midst,
not on some edge beyond, but in--

[from Otherwise Unseeable (University of Wisconsin Press, 2014)]