Summer 2014: Poetry
it wasn’t the rain
by Ann Sinclair
it wasn’t the rain falling on star-silvery plates or the raspy rattle of a rain stick it was the small spaces between sounds the little rests the caesuras of heart beats the pillowed sigh of breathing it was the iota of intimate quiet that lies curled between whispered kisses of leaves falling finding their way home to the mother of all who sings lullabies with no words lullabies that bring restive rest to nights when the spoon bird croons to the moon nights when cacophony rules crashes its murmurs through the purple-black sky when the moon’s dark side swivels to face the lover’s eyes unclosed arms caressing the space between always between between the lover and the loved meanwhile time moved forward with no sound with no punctuation between instants leaving nothing but numbers written on the other face of the moon
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