If you happen to see me walking in the rain
leaving the highways and seeking the quiet lane,
know that it is to seek,
you brushing past the insane bloom
out of season, out of the beaten path,
lingering to console the saddest of the laggards
the season's last rose.
The first of the season's rains, the first bloom, the first moon have always gained a place.
I try hard to recall
the last of the rains, of the season last,
the grooves it left in my path
before the sunshine wiped them away.
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