Rain fell hard, day and night,
Swept our home like a matchbox down the river.
We ran, hearts pounding, lives unmoored,
Till a shelter uptown caught our fall.
Hope was gone, our dream home shattered,
Dust and echoes in its place.
Yet on the ceiling, a cobweb gleamed,
Holding light where shadows raced.
A stranger offered a blanket’s warmth,
Another pressed hot soup in my hands.
Blessings bloomed in the wreckage—
Small sparks in a broken land.
I wrote, I cried, till Luna came,
My cat, purring soft as a distant star.
“Damn, Luna,” I laughed, “you’re a quiet engine,
Revving hope in this 80cc heart.”
Her warmth stirred me to rise again.
I served breakfast to faces worn and kind,
And in that room, beneath the ceiling’s thread,
Hope held fast, a spark we’d find.
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