Raindrops keep hitting
dim surfaces of pools on asphalt
and gravel, pools that weren't there
when the world went dark;
a mere steady drizzle, and not
a proper, hammering spring
rain, beating withered land
into resurrection - like this
season not a proper spring
as the mind, holding its Platonic
ideal of a spring complains,
refusing this one cast in a broken
mould; but the circles spreading
briefly in the dark water are
perfect, without a blemish,
one after another.
19.04.2025
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