Window in the Rain

I stood at the window watching the rain
the way it made the street an impressionist painting—
the umbrellas moving like a colony of birds,
the lights in puddles wavering and fainting.

There is a quality of afternoon in rain
that thickens time and makes it slow—
the hour stretches, the tea cools,
and you allow yourself the not-doing so.

Give yourself the window day sometimes,
the afternoon that has no list or aim—
the standing at the glass and watching
is its own entirely legitimate claim.
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