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House of Rain

As if the wind ascends stirred

by leaves and not the other way around the house you can hear

from your comforter first leaf another leaf after leaf every leaf

ticking down branch by branch

what it must be like

to be a living tree the house has no memory

of a hollow log has its own songs

in the canopies its own snows winters dusting down

surfaces spring free and when rain comes now it’s only rain

here and nowhere else for no one else knows

weather anywhere but here there

is rain or no rain only maybe paths taken

by the soaked leaves falling

to the rain layers you and you weight drop

upon drop plaiting into deltas small maps

of years accumulating on glass

ballast the house floats tiny acorns on the skylights

rain slipping into what buckets can’t hold

buckling and disheveling till there is nothing

to be done nothing not undone but the wind wanting nothing

but to come in

warm to meet your skin halfway

open windows in love with air flow drunk

on rain the selvedges pine

sills rise from year to year life to life

echoes timbers’ seasons of slumber and sun

lift apart planed rings like threads

time unwinds you at last drink to you in the storm

through every room drinking what you can

carry rain in your hands’ imperfect cups

Alice B. Fogel

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