RESERVOIR

WILSON JOSEPHSON

 
 

When clouds tumble in, heavy and low,

I am drawn back to young summers

Or a single day, standing for all the others

 
We cut rhubarb in the hummingbird sun

Dipped those implausibly red stems in little bags of sugar.

 
First whispers of theology—

And under those swing-low,

Kiss-the-pines clouds,

I am reminded of our slow turning—our steady revolutions.

 

 
 

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