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Tonight when it rained,

I thought, "mother, its raining"

And I wanted to call you.

I loved the rain,

And I think its impetuousness

Moved even you,

My lost, lonely, mother


Mother, you took me

On little trips into your sadness,

And bought me sweets;

You did not make me feel

I owed you anything

And for that I love you,

My gentle, sad, mother



My dad saw the Angels


My dad spoke French

Once, in Paris. 

A man asked him the time, 

And he answered, correctly. 

So often he repeated that story. 


My dad played the piano

Occasionally, in the back room. 

Always the same tune,

Fingered mechanically, haltingly. 

We laughed at his clumsy fingering.  


My dad saw the Angels

Coming, through the ceiling.

The nursing home called me,

But I was busy with the family. 

I never spoke to him again. 



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