by Lynne Hjelmgaard

A sprinkling turns to downpour,
the ailing world enters
my window.
May it wash our ills away—
says my whispering voice
—this is where I live,
but do I live here?

Should we stay inside, stay away,
is safe right, right where I am,
can I take it—can my children,
will their children's children,
will they fix things, can anyone,
does the world?

Almost summer.
The sycamore more floral,
deep and full of intensity,
next to the purple burgundy leaves
of its neighbour—
yet unidentified,
all my loves near to me.


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