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High Rain


Something 

about the morning, 

rain from the west 

across the sullen skies, 

seems November 

has returned, 

summer’s lost 

her way, 

hiding behind 

the clouds, 

blushing behind 

the dawn, 

hiding her modesty, 

closing her eyes.


For below 

the fields stand 

empty, along 

the churning river, 

the trees weigh, 

heavily with raindrops, 

and tapestries 

of springtime 

in flourishes 

and waterfalls 

of green, 

the country lanes, 

long, turning 

blindly, 

distances to nowhere, 

May and June, 

hidden, empty 

of promises, 

left unseen.

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