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ISSUE:  Spring 1987

A dry spring after an April
that promised better: funny, the way
the weather seems to be drier now
than what we always remember.
We draw the Delaware River down
to cover the difference, build a new
power plant, cover our pastures
with houses, wonder whatever
became of summer evenings
on porches with thunderstorms.
The radio says it may rain today
every day for a week, but the sky
gives up nothing but blank blue
space from here to the moon.
Men have walked on the moon,
but the salt line on the Delaware
inches its way north year by year.
We believe the earth will go on
giving forever, and we don’t believe
what we can see with our own eyes:
dust devils, withering violets—all
we need is a little rain.
We turn on the radio, gaze
up at the sky, and wait.


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