Anonymous said: Anonymous asks<br>What's it like for the light <br>That lives inside every 500th rain<br>drop <br>of the storm drain of your mind?<br>Falling to periodically feed <br>the soil that will some day <br>birth <br>spring foliage<br>temporarily turn alleys into <br>glistening promenades<br>dress up<br>depression into <br>romantic visions<br>offer inefficient lubricant <br>or <br>heat respite?<br>But mostly <br>I'm sure<br>it shatter and spills into gutters to<br>lurch out to<br>sea
Where is that light now? Somewhere in the East River? In the clouds above us this December Sunday? The forecasted evening snow, delicately crystallized? We’ll watch, because we know it’s different every time.
Thank you for sharing this lovely poem.