Rain

The morning rain

Of small, cold, icicle droplets

Form thunder-gray shadows,

Inaccurate pictures of substantial objects,

Soften the contours of buildings,

And the pine trees have no needles.

They laugh, a harsh sound, a chorus of imps,

Screeching as they fall from upward – sing down

Into my face – tears trace patterns on my cheeks.

 

But the sun lets down a widening ray and

She lights up the spring-bare branches

And the soft, evergreen needles;

She shows the imps that cling to the arms and fingers of the living wood

their true form…

Life-watered diamonds that lace the trees with lights.

Stop and look, let beauty astound you

When the sun lights up the rain shadows.

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