on the birth of rain

It was a sunny day.  My innocence still intact.  Rainfall predicted for eternity.

Here comes the black man in the white bus, wearing the white robe, with the white words.  Circling in on the scent of your darkness from down the street, approaching to offer you primrose relief.

An ointment you handed me as you left the room.  He was in bed, on his back, shirtless, staring at me, smiling. This stranger.

He beckoned my approach with a request to rub him with the elixir.  Reluctant and obedient I did.  He grabbed my hand. All went frozen.

I would birth a Rain created of sun and snow, clothed only in black.

In twilight cover she huddles closely to rainbows, disappearing at dawn…

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