The Coup of the Rain (Draft 11 that gets worse)

The Coup of the Rain (Draft 11 that gets worse)

A little bird told me
a tale for Joan —

Wednesday’s rain, so grandiose,
Cannot marry grief’s sodden pairs:
those feathered hopes
that sulk, and pair up
in moments flirtations.

A little bird rapped to me
in chirpy gossip. Now —

In the clearing bower
light is approaching
with rapprochement,
a blessing of the Sun,

and she will shelter me
in radiant glows, because

the sun will marry us
with vows to the light
and avian rhapsodies.

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