In writing out what just popped by
In early twenty, twenty-three
I found my page suspiciously
Had turned its back on me
Like waterfalls, the words spilt out
The page soaked wet with meaning
In a code of blurs and smudges
Shades and patterns interweaving
What I saw most pleasantly
Shapes and outlines formed arrays
Imprints full of expectations
Predicting better-weather days
"And it never failed that during the dry years, the people forgot about the rich years, and during the wet years they lost all memory of the dry years. It was always that way."
— JOHN STEINBECK
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