Rain in May

The blackened iron of the stove is ticking into coolness when the first drops start against the roof. It is late: the night has darkened into this like a fruit - a sudden pear-aroma fills the room. Just before dawn it comes up harder again, light and rain pouring down equally under the morning's full moon. Long sheets of hillside give the water sound, light fails into light, and before sleeping again I glimpse the given tasks of any day: to hear as a sand-crab hears the waves, loud as a second heart; to see as a green thing sees the sun, with the undividing attention of blind love.

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