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Tuesday, April 19, 2016

poem ----- Donald Gasperson

the memory of rain

what memory makes whole
as if rounded by the thumb
is that comfort at the marrow

a tenderness found  
in the strange bitterness of leaves
littering the graceless spaces

if it were mine alone
the patient rain could fall
and fill all the little silences

now knowing well enough
that each unnecessary season
is full of its own reason

and the inevitability of the past
that nurtures this creative act
begets one immaculate fact

knowing from foreshortened time
that the cleansing power of sentiment
is the power of the mind