Rain Smell

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Overcast skies,

mourning doves crooning,

cars gliding slowly

across soaked asphalt.

Wisps of steam

rise from your teacup,

raindrops streak

down the half-open windows

of the screened-in porch —

pooling on the sills and

trickling from the gutters.

The world grinds to a halt,

just for this moment.

Breezes blow in

through the insect screens,

rustling branches

and carrying

wafts of petrichor

that connect you

to the world you swore

you’ve escaped from.

A few more minutes

out here

couldn’t hurt.

Nymph-o-mania

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The Nephelae,

In their endless nebulousness,

Floated,

With empty jars,

Once filled with rain water.

The Hamadryads waited,

With breath bated,

For a little drizzle,

But the Nephelae,

Wasted all of it,

Once again,

On a parade.

So to save face,

They went to their sisters,

The Naiades,

To fill their pitchers.

“Back so soon,” they asked,

Poking their heads out,

From the running rapids.

The Nephelae looked at their feet,

“Use it wisely,”

Said the Naiades.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you”

The Nephelae screamed,

Dipping their jars,

Into the river.

They floated off, toward the forest,

Then the Aurae blew them away,

Over the Amphitheater.

“Now’s as good a time as any!”

And they dumped their cargo,

Onto the concert.

Evergreen

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It’s not that pine trees,

Have a lot to hide,

They just don’t have much,

To show.

Standing solid,

Solemn,

Stable,

Their needles as green,

As they ever were.

Crows, for being draped in black,

Are not very stealthy,

Rather garrulous,

Cawing in threes,

Bobbing, posturing,

Perched in the trees.

The rusted-out fire pit,

Doesn’t do very much,

In the day,

Besides,

Retain,

Past rain.

I’m sitting on the old bench,

That’s been here,

Since before I was,

Thinking about how,

The more things change,

The more they stay the same.

In the Sunroom

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I hear them outside, and this I know

The windows show a light-grey glow.

The yard was drizzle-dusted in a dancing, daylight daze,

Yet the sun’s rays poked through the rainy day’s haze.

The robins ranted and babbled by the crabapples,

While they foraged amongst the twigs and gravel.

I hear them now, while I stand in the sun room-

And I know that in time, all will come to bloom.

The wind whips and whisks the wisps,

Casting out cloudy skies

and spreading a crisp, brisk mist,

This too I know is true,

When I stand in the sunroom.