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.

 

Comments. . .

 

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Bethany Lim has been reading for many more years than she’s been writing, and she very much enjoys surfing the web here at PoetryCircle. She loves when she writes something unexpected and hears her voice change into something new, morphing into a different style.

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