Rain.
Turn over this dry ground, soften the edges
Of these forgotten fields; furrows of intention carved deep-
Landlocked for some time now.
Seep into this reluctant soil, laying fallow --
Unfazed by the moon
and all her suitors.
On starless nights sleeping indifferent to March's wary howl.
Stay.
Waken this woolen earth.
Non-expectant and turned, full of its own spit --
Yet, secretly holding out for something new under the sun.
-bellini
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