RITE

March 30, 2024 at 12:50 am (Scarriet Editors)

The daffodils, wet and yellow, are no longer stooping.

The plump pigeons are once again jets, swooping.

The twenty-four-hour rainfall is over at last—

murky and misty, like my past.

The animals waited while the rain fell.

And for trivial reasons, I did, as well.

Nothing but the rain kept me from you.

Nothing but the rain. Nothing but the rain.