each spring, with the rains
comes the seepage, in the cellar:
first just the walls
get wet with
the clean smell of skywater
outlining the cracks
that frost tried to pry
through; but as a steady drumming
on the roof begins
to get on our nerves,
and the drain, at the center
starts a choking, throaty gurgle,
the smell begins to turn
sour, or rather, rank; and when the drain
is full, a soft muddy layer of
unwanted feelings comes up and covers the floor
upstairs the open windows are ushering
the strong scent of lilac across the bedclothes,
the softening rain is just a pleasant whisper
up here, where thoughts of spring's
renewal may sit in upholstered chairs
reflecting on the beauty of the rain;
the light and air encourage
thought and reflection,
stimulate an ongoing
conversation as to the merits
of pumps and long wet afternoon
kisses, indolent and purposeful--
succumbing to passion's steady pleading
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