The rain may pass without ceremony, pitch only
tents of darkened trees by morning. I am left, then,

without dry wood, without acceptable hurt, with
no storm to show for it. The clouds run, retreat to far

off fields, and I try to explain the wet ground, explain
how we lack the fierceness of fire. The day may come

when our enemies will elope, steal our possibilities,
break our need for common ground simply by leaving.

 

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