Nostalgia comes with the smell of rain, you know – Donald Justice

And in the lush undergrowth Cicadas have become minstrels Narrating, into the night, some epic Of loss, in song. And the memory Of other rains returns, as sporadic Glimpses of photographs on the bedside Bureau in flashes of sheet lightning.

What has become of you, once my best Friend, now a colossal mound of silence, A dead root hanging from the side Of my chest, a steel track unbolted, ties Rotten, broken and randomly upended, Rainy nights when we sat talking over Steamy cups of chai, whitening like fossils?

So today walking in the rain, To those inscrutable gods of fate, I pay with your alienation The price of this long exile.