Sweeping

In June, the rain earnest now 
in its involvement with our 
affairs: we wielded
                     brooms 
of gathered palm rib, dragged 
their stiff tips across landings, 
courtyard paths. 
                     But how
with such flimsy instruments   
could we return what the skies  
kept doling out? 
                      Chorus 
of movements intent upon 
the stones— loosened gravel, 
old leaves, dead 
                       insects caught  
in that paradox of gathering. 
All the water in the world: 
inexhaustible, 
                 falling over balconies.
                        

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