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by Marianne Poloskey

All day
slow rain has been washing
Sunday plans and wishes.
Colors drain.
Nothing sparkles in my mind.

Even so,
slate roofs shine
where their slant catches
the light; and irises,
pale and dusty-throated
only yesterday,
are wearing the deep
purplish blue
of a satisfied sky.

They stand up straight,
mouths open -
a small congregation
about to sing.

Outside my window,
rain runs through the tree
and gathers in random tears
suspended from branches
until they drop
of their own weight,

the way sadness
clings to life
and we keep wiping our eyes
until our vision clears.

Now I notice
polished blades of grasses
slimming as they stretch
to let the drops squeeze by -
and every flower,
every leaf holds still,
waiting for its share of rain.

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