Its Thousand Pale Shadows
______________________________

The orchard fills with cold
rain, pencil thick, my ghost.

How long it seems to fall
and the smaller wild apples.

I set my hand above my eyes,
water forking down the bones

across my face, but only see
what I am hearing: rain,

light draining from the earth.
If I am not yet finished

understanding how my father
loves me, I would like to know.

There are a few leaves fixed
on these branches and this rain

strikes them as if statues
smaller than his thumbs were

come to life, were diving
from the shelves in Our Museum

of the Flood, water filled
the long and narrow halls.

 

from Rain Through High Windows by Edward Haworth Hoeppner
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