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When the rains come,
oak bark blackens to a bold
calligraphy, small tufts
of leaves fall, an afterthought.
The peonies we picked
before the downpour
bend in fullness before
the letting go begins.
Oak and peony,
and what of our arms
which narrow
to the tender bones of wrist
before widening to hands
that hold and let go,
hold and then let go.