Todd Dillard

Night Rain

Like the first gods 

emerging from the surf

the dogwoods shed 

droplets of light.

 

And the puddles—they're silver 

keys on the clarinet of our street.

 

Why should we close the windows

the way we close our minds

to thoughts of death. 

 

Let this little dark, 

this humble wet 

shiver into our room. 

 

Without silence 

there is no music. 

 

Let the silence 

come. 

 

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