They clouds make an intense gray canvas,
and yet they paint the earth with strokes of rain.
We see what happens to the ground, we smell the fragrant joy.
But I wonder what happens on the cloud when raindrops form,
what art happens on the dark side.
Dry leaves rushing across the street,
like teens for a concert.
The breeze urging me to fly, knowing I cannot if I tried.
The rain cloaking me from this teasing, caressing my brow,
saying it’s alright.
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