Rain fall on the windowpane
Rain run down the horse’s mane
Rain dance in the muddy street,
soak the yard and pool in the seat
of the chair that we left on the patio
when the scorching sun refused to go,
and we thought that the world would sizzle and bake,
for the rest of time; it was our mistake.
Now the yard is soaked, and the muddy street
has puddles that dance to the rhythm, the beat
of the rain that is falling, is falling down time
down years and down decades, the rain like the rhyme
that was said by your bed on that tumbledown day,
when your head hurt from tears for the dog, run away.
The words fell like rain on your chest, and the ache
that burned there — the burning, it sizzled and baked —
cooled just a little, words pooled in your soul,
still there, not forgotten, but fragments, not whole.
So go out in the rain, let it fall, let it beat.
Let your veins find the rhythm; the blood and its heat
will pulse with the rain, like the words, out of time —
storm lifts;
sun gathers himself;
don’t lose it, please,
come back — I wish — yes — it went something
like this—
but no.
I’ve lost it
— the rhyme.
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