Trapped

I did not change the two tiles
that the hail destroyed on the roof of my room
on the loft where I now sleep.
Falling through them (away from each other) from the high sky, the drops of a tense drizzle
from the high sky, the drops of a faint drizzle,
or the torrential flow of a storm.
He is greeted by steel bowls
placed on the floor with strategy.
It is music.
Strident.
It stirs me,
I worry about the overflow
in case the container fills up before its time.
In my sleeplessness I am lulled to sleep by the dripping sounding metal,
when the rain is a barely.
It is a whisper on full moon nights,
syllables of the wind that strive to enter
into the silence
is an openness to the whims of the outside
that gives meaning to the inside
of my confinement