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The real road of discovery consists
not in seeing new landscapes,
but in having new eyes.
—Marcel Proust
A dark sky blots out trees
erases clean contours
while rain waits to wash away
chalk drawings left by children
It pushes cyclists to switch gears
in an attempt to move beyond
the sounds of thunder
A woman pushing a stroller
looks at the sky and begins to run
I am outside waiting for the rain
I wait for the drops to wash over me
Rain nurtures my roses
and feeds small saplings
I, too, seek to grow
