The pat, pat, pat,
Of falling rain,
A radio's quiet reflection,
A small scared dog,
Wet, wanting to come in.
The sounds are woven
Within my life,
Like an old hemp rope,
With each strand frayed,
To sound my existence.
A chorus of strings,
Echoes from the past.
The gusting wind,
Of dual reality,
The rushing sounds,
Of love and fate.
Sandra Osborne
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sounds-2/
