By Mercy Godwin 2 months ago

Praise the rains that kiss our cheeks,

praise the faintest smell of dust adrift

and the sand that gathers moist.

Praise the flight to open yards draped in hung out sheets

or to rooms with stretched out arms,

window frames the brim to coming storms

Praise the march to fallow grounds of booted troops,

armed to teeth with tools of Midas' touch

Praise the new found chill

in little taps of heaven's tears,

the grief has long been borne let her pour her soul.

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