You have never seen life until you’ve stepped

in a fall of rain, as Autumn slow and long

creeps to hidden music, a Tuesday song

on a steel-gray morning, in a chair you’ve kept

for the Friend who may yet come. Alarming

as it may be, but no sweat in the thought,

you find you are there, where all is not

as it ought be. With no threat of harming

you, your Friend knows you need to wait, a time

to dance in puddles, as acorns tapping

on old frost-heaves wake Winter from its napping

to sing: “No need to wait for life to rhyme.

The rain right now has its own peculiar form—

good for drinking, and for wondering.”

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