A poem by Dana Littlepage Smith
The rain in the old cemetery is simple.
It falls on yarrow, clover, ragwort
dispensing pearls into the grain of day,
into the Yorick skull-clot of Devon clay.
The tissue of the warm-wooded dead
is wormed with the first drop of its showers,
runs into the finger-hold of tiny oaks, rooting
in dust, splattered by green rain-come-down-rain.
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