They come down in spades sometimes on my roof.

Pointy knives and sharped forks and things that people say.

They lodge themselves into the the shingles and stick.

They come down in a deluge sometimes.

Sorrors.  Happiness.

Sometimes in bluk they look the same.

When there’s too much of anything isn’t sorrow the default?

They come down sometimes in trickles.

Insights.  Feelings.  Hints.  Signs.  Clues.

A slow dripping down.

They kind of rain you don’t even notice until after it’s gone.

The kind of thing you look for but never notice.

You just walk outsede later to see that there’s something on your roof.  Something on the ground.  On the grass.

And you missed it.