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Poem 1: A Beginning

I sat and I wondered, to myself in my head, what shall I do before going to bed? "There's not much day left; there's no time ...

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

Poem 63: Dry Rain

Rain makes puddles, then soaks into the ground.
Earth, acting like sponge, draws it in through the straw of its depth.
I want to see proof that rain's fallen, so I enter the world,
but in surprise I'm blinded to the residual effects
that show the cooling, feeding, prodding hand of rain.

Rain quenches thirst, but I am still waiting for this quenching.
I stand with head tilted back, mouth open: waiting. 
I am a net which catches stray feathers, houses bugs
and witnesses hummingbirds relaxing, perched to rest from long flights.
Yet, in all hospitality, I remain: empty.

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