You’re always writing about rain

Sometimes it's the streaks drawn 
patiently by hand, slanting across lined

paper. Or a filigree crown that sparkles above 
an open umbrella. You've known its generous 

waterfalls, its unspoken orders to stay under 
the covers. There's no escaping it, not even

when the sun is high in the sky: somewhere 
there are clouds gathering whatever the earth

exhales as water— a tribe of women
stirring, seemingly not tired after months

and months of tending their vessels.
When they rest, it's then that the rain

can be tender; can mean they never
meant to destroy anything in you.   

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