The rain
casts a shadow
of dry earth under eaves
where – huddled flat against the wall –
I wait

Evening
is falling like
the sound of raindrops, drip?
by drop? below the surface of the day?
And gone?

I hold
inside my throat
a dream of winter’s end –
of fog-dressed fields below blue skies
at dawn.

The clouds
are calving, damp
and gravid with new rain;
I turn my face up to the sky
to watch.

Below,
the valley hides
a trestle track; the train
chatters past the stream where cows wade
and drink.

The rain
is falling like
a dream of winter’s end;
I turn my face up to the sky
and drink.

Here’s a little cinquain for this month’s poetry slam at yeah write. It’s a garland cinquain, because I’m an overachiever like that: the sixth stanza is made up of lines from the first five, in order.

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