WHEN BREADCRUMBS FAIL
The smell of summer rain
means we will never pass
by this place again, friend.
Lightning strikes in the distance.
rhythmically beats against
the aluminum window frame
as I press my face against the cool glass,
trying both to stay awake
and to wake up:
the rain will turn, shortly, into snow,
the snow into wind,
and the wind into time escaped,
masked in gentle thunder
amidst a downpour of torrential loss.
Copyright © 2014 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.
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