LAURELS
Sometimes the memories come in the rain:
the cry of voices, the play of dolls,
the taste of honey, the chill of springs —
the feral dancing, breast to breast,
the shining menace of the archer’s bow —
the wild spinning swirling seizing winds,
the cold soft mud stealing their feet,
the rough salt winds laughing at their newborn leaves.
Raindrops serve as mortal tears, though
they shake and laugh, and laugh and shake,
push their roots into earth so deep,
and reach out branches to sister mortals, sister trees,
the caress of leaves so sweet, so sweet —
so much more than the touch of gods.
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