Gusts of wind blast
the drops into a spray.
The waters rise.
This might be the day
that the streets
are all washed clean
and we know (though we have never asked)
what all the prophets mean.
But then, the air is warm and
there is promise in the rain,
the drooping branches,
the myopic window pane.
The flattened winter pansies
are paint daubed on the ground.
The rains stops abruptly.
For a moment no sound
but a siren in the distance .
The city catches fire.
The clouds have scudded south.
The smoke is rising higher.
Don Tiedemann's Other Poems
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