Rainy monday

The third day it rains
the third day is dark and damp.
Unsociable, impassable
world.
In a sleepy apartment
shadows roam
and poetry.
I watch them.
Dangling words
floating smoothly in the air.
Third day without a break
without hope for gaps
September is raining.
There is no heat and no sun.
I'd like to be silent:
about you ... about us ...
But time
and silence seal
you and I will not change.
And I would like ... for a moment.
For a second. What happiness!
A ghostly image arose
and - crumbled to pieces ...
And out the window, for an hour, an hour,
to the rhythm of the drip dance
the lines are not pouring about us.
They are pouring and afraid of the rain.
Touching the glass -
leave the smell of sadness.
It's far from June.
Autumn
in our backwoods.
From the window square
the edge of a severe cloud is visible.
The third day she hangs
the third day torments me with verses.
Or torments poetry? ..
Rain. Apartment. The smell of summer.
Along the husk of life
The lines flow across the parquet floor.

Shapkina Galina