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Gay Baines

Summer Storm

I hear the puddling in the gutters,

that mysterious rush of rain

in grass. Beneath the east window,

neighbors’ lamps gleam on the

fragile pools in thirsty leaves.

I imagine purple pansies 

lifting their gray and yellow eyes

to the sky. 

                     After a month of 

drought I should rejoice, but don’t.

Somewhere people murmur There

is a god, but to me it’s a visit

by a gray-coated spirit that will

drift away to the East,

looking for the wind.

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