What couldn’t you put in a poem that isn’t, eventually, rain?

Make  tea with boiled ordinary  
tap water, which comes into your house
through a network of pipes. Its source:
waterfall or river, man-made lake
shuttered by the gates of a dam.
And before that? Precipitate  collected 
from all that gives off steam or sweat—
Swill behind barns,  bead on the back
of a snail in the humid undergrowth.  
The ching of ice cubes in a glass. Damp
sheets of mist at dusk.  Umbrellas 
opening in anticipation of a squall. 

 

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