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The rain doesn’t stop.

Soft and constant, it hushes the city and cools the summer air

a blessing, if not for the dampness it leaves behind.

I’ve laid out my new felt pieces, still heavy with water,

waiting for the wool to yield its final shape,

but the air is too shy to carry the moisture away.

I could turn on the radiators

but it’s not winter, and I don’t want to steal the softness of the season.

So I wait.

Torn between two loves:

the slow reveal of my hands’ labor

and the quiet comfort of raindrops tapping the glass,

each one a reminder

that not all progress is visible.

Some days, the making happens in the waiting.