Angels In the Rain
Wings too wet to fly, he plucks 32 strands of rain,
singing songs of all the colors the storm will never stain.
Far below his holy robes huddle humble wrens
who fluff their feathers anxiously and wait for sky again.
Uncommon skill imbues his hands with unearthly grace
as if he played with unknown notes that man could never ape.
Little by little, drop by drop, the song begins to dry
and all the colors reemerge and all the colors fly.
June 23 2018
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