And the rain falls

in tune with my mood
to sweeten the green,
and me, listing
somewhat to starboard
hoard all my sorrows
as if by staring at them,
fingering them
and counting them,
I could lay a curse
and have them go -
but oh how the heart beats slow,
these turgid hours
diseased by dryness
now rotting with the rain
and those green places
cannot be made fair again
unless some gardener-god
stooped down and kissed
my brow and gave me
real gold grain
I could breathe on
and grow.
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