offering 3

By Frank Kearns

Deep in a hot southwestern night
I try to give a name to each
of a thousand images of rain

what name for a mist in early summer
that thickened on the canopy of pine
till droplets fell to darken and dapple
the paths which led around the pond
to the place we called Perch Cove

rain as verb      to lavish or bestow
great buckets of rain       so sudden
they absolve the layers of festering dust
and on a damp mid-summer night
break loose the clots of memory

what name for the driving lashing rain
that splattered on the windshield glass
in ever-changing circles and rivulets
and dodged the syncopated wipers
for one hundred turnpike miles

and what name will finally satisfy
the weeks of late September rain
cold against your upstairs window
disquieting the inner cracks
threatening to freeze and split the soul

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