Rain drops keep falling on my pages

Just back home now in backyard Torontesse Piazza - post-son's-guitar lesson (sans spiclatinobassthumps) - smoking a monte cristo cigarillo with dusk settling in - and the rain starts. I know the pages should have been in my hands. Not sitting ignored by my side. But I was "reading". I was reading the smoke as it rose up from the tobbacco cylinder in my hand and met the friday evening sky. I was happy. Content. To be reading the smoke. But now I feel guilty as I see my pages drenched in tears. The pages want to be in my hands. The pages want to be rising up, drifting, wafting, soaring up to the sky. The pages want to be read.