The Past Still Needs Me
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In a dream, rain ran past me.
Half-shouting, half-stumbling. Tripping over its dress of rain.
Beauty always seems to rush straight through me. On its way to someplace else.
Years ago, a younger, more innocent rain
fell across the doorway where my mother lingered, carrying laundry.
Behind her, cherry blossoms boomed across a cave of pure sky.
Which is how I remember it.
Which is maybe how it happened.