The Weight of Rain on Banana Leaves

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

The poets are the capturers of truths

so small they slip unnoticed—
the silver arc of a teaspoon catching light,
the gentle exhale of a door closing.
They are the weavers of fleeting moments:
the clink of ice against a glass,
the frayed hem of a dress
dragging across linoleum.
They filter the world through
a sieve fine enough to hold
only the essence of what matters.

The poets carve meaning
from what others discard.
They sift through the small, the quiet,
the almost invisible:
a strand of hair caught on a collar,
the bruised edges of a peach
left too long on the counter,
the way rain lingers on glass
before surrendering to gravity.

Every small act passes through them—
the flick of a wrist stirring tea,
the lilt of a voice saying goodbye,
the ache in a pause
that stretches just too long.
They stitch these fragments into lines
that glimmer,
their words an invitation
to see what has always been there:
the extraordinary folded
into the ordinary.

Their wisdom pools
in the pages of books,
spines bowed on dusty shelves.
The wells are deep,
but people no longer stoop
to drink.

These days, they skim the surface of life,
scrolling past its subtleties,
rushing through its stillness.
They forget to pause—
to notice how the scent of coffee
pulls morning into focus,
how the creak of a swing
can pull time backward,
how light shifts at dusk,
a fleeting blessing
on the face of the day.

They forget to wonder,
to connect the poetry of their lives
to the poetry in words.
They miss the threads that tether them:
the rustle of leaves caught in autumn’s sigh,
the sticky sweetness of mango
clinging to fingertips,
the ache of a love song heard alone.

To read a poem is to sip
from the essence of life itself—
to touch what endures,
what waits quietly for us to return.
But in the rush of days,
few stop to taste this sweetness.
Fewer still allow it
to guide them back to themselves,
to where love and gratitude
are waiting,
fragile as spider silk,
but strong enough to hold us.

Yet the poets persist.
They write for the ones
who will remember—
the ones who will one day
sit still long enough
to feel.

They know that the little things matter:
the nap of velvet on a chair,
the half-moon imprint of a fingernail
pressed into a palm,
the way warm air
smells before a storm.

These are the things
that strengthen us—
the unnoticed, the unspoken,
the fibers of a lattice
woven so tightly
we barely see it.

The poets see it.
They always have.
They write for a world
too hurried to notice,
hoping their words
will catch someone mid-step,
mid-thought, mid-breath,
and remind them:

The little things are everything.