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Untitled

The sky opens up
and gray light spills
through the clouds
onto a field
from a hidden Sun.

All that remains
of the past is the
wetness of the leaves
between my fingers
and beneath my hands.

But not even the
hiss of a cold wind
through the trees
can mask the drum of
water-on-leaves.

Rains,
deceptively distant.

James Conrad Allen

 


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