Under the Eaves

A hundred days
since we’ve had rain,
no one knows
when it will come, again.
Trying to remember
how much fell
in the past,
what parched skin
was like soaked through
and through,
when I was last
caught with you
under the eaves,
watching hail bounce
along the walk,
making small talk,
about how long
it might possibly last,
how it was falling
cats and dogs,
all coming down
so very fast.

 

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