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I sit and watch the rain

trace its aimless pattern on the window,

and wonder why my words won't flow.

My thoughts trickle down without design,

a wandering formless stream.

Do I touch a way of knowing

that language cannot clothe in shapes familiar?

Do I reach beyond the limits of my neatly ordered mind

to find a beauty far too real to wrap in words?

For this is how I love you:

that silence and feeling are more real

than all my words,

and endless -

like the cycle of wind and sun and cloud

that brings the rain