The rain falls silent in the courtyard.
Its words gather underneath the leaves.
A copper gutter bends away from paper
and gives the soil what it receives.

Beneath the arch, a cart of books stands sheltered.
The canvas bears the weather on its skin.
No page must learn the shape of every storm
for someone to find a world within.

I turn the wheels inward toward the wall.
I lift the cloth where air can pass.
Protection is a way of making room,
not keeping each thing behind glass.

Across the pool, the windows loosen gold.
Reflections scatter with a drop.
The water need not hold them;
the building stands when their reflections stop.

A story waits without becoming empty.
A closed book never means its road is gone.
The hand that opens it will choose a morning.
The work is keeping paper strong.

So let the garden drink beside the threshold.
Let wind move through the square.
The path for rain and path for pages
can meet without abandoning their care.

I touch no lock to prove care matters.
I check the roof, the wheels, the grain.
Then leave a light along the passage
for those returning after rain.