It's a summer storm,
and fat drops
fall from the tips
of grey-green
willow leaves,
to explode like giggles
on the glistening
asphalt path
that snakes past our feet.

This bench has no shelter
but to leave it
I would have to
relinquish your hand
and let my skin
slip away from yours.

And so, here we are
sitting in the rain
turning up our faces
as if we were being
showered in petals,
clinging silently
to each other,
Till only our palms
are dry.

A Wordmongers' Masque: Poets' Ball entry

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