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After the Rain

The still of a gray

dawn is broken

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only by the slow

dripping of trees

lush with blossoms

and the occasional bird

tilting its head

in call to another,

and by the emergence

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of slated roofs

and chimneys streaked

with the memory

of rain.

Beads of water

cling to flowers

and roll down hoods

in driveways


by glassy reflections

rippling with

the soft touch

of fallen petals.

All things

begin anew.

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