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Churchbells in the Rain


This house rests

On a brief suburban street,

My reluctant address of some seven, eight years.

I have often hated it

For its ratty, anorexic pines

And wet, soulless heat…

But now, as the gentle rain

Cools the morning

With its bacon-sizzle percussion,

And the old churchbell

—That comforting anachronism—

Exhales its brassy song,

This place almost feels like home.


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Copyright ©2001 Adam Rutledge