The Widow Wyile
is quite content
to spend ten rainy hours
in a tent
if there is light and one
good book she’ll read some
words,  turn some pages
then when her eyelids
begin to droop
to the drop drop beat
of the drum steady
patter down of
mesmerizing rain
she’ll pitch the cover
so the words too can hang
from the spine and rest
their intentions
snugly snoozing
amid the ebb and flow of dreams
streams leaves