A Year of Poems – Day 288

I cannot hope for rain again
with the silence of the steady drips
gone like a drop sunk into the earth.
Liquid clocks on the mantelpiece
Books on the sofa and desk
That fade into a present pool of sleep,
But I cannot hope it comes again
The rest that massages my ears,
until the rain starts on another day
where I sit with another book on another couch,
but meteorology cannot predict this perfect storm.


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