Cedar chest

One of the hardest things
in the world to lift is a jar

of rain filled from the last
monsoon; or the fine, electric net

threaded of cricket cries over a field.
When you were young, you hardly noticed

the splendor fading light could give
to ragged skies, the way small

craft at the pier threatened to come
untethered in a squall. Now, the sound

of thunder is the hoof of the first
horseman striking stone. Quickly,

you gather the brightly patterned cloths
that you were counting and folding to give

away: deeply tinted orchids, careful beads
bursting their brightest blue and yellow.

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