On maples’ dark and slender trunks,
late April light and steady rain
brought out a delicate lace,
a moss-green script and map,
ordinarily covered by the gray
during all the other days,
when no moist contact
let that gentle threading live.
And all the while, as rain
keeps on pouring in
its dainty lines,
mist begins to lie over the trees,
wrapping it all
in a susurrous dress
that reads:
“May we have a word? Now?”
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