Friday, August 10, 2007

copeland morris RAIN

Distance is not endearing; but aren't the voices
Sublime, a violin her uncle played on the porch?
The rain begins with tenderness. Huge drops pause
And rush together with brief disquiet, sighing;
Green and delicate catkins of old pecan trees
Drifting like caterpillars down to the ground.
She picks her mottled skin, picks up a catkin.
How daunting, dear hand, a touch so exquisite
Cool to the touch, discreet and quick, and wise.

No other clemency or verdict is certain: only
That rain adorns her and she remembers rain,
The blink of summer lightning, the pale new moon,
The strength of the dead, the sky with its turmoil,
The desperate stillness of air so near to storm.


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