Pitter-pat, the rain falls against the wood

And each drop once more begins to erase

What once was on the old carriage,

Left forgotten in the wet grass.

“Look there,” I say and we step closer to peer under.

I stroke the still soft wood

That hints of the days when the grains gleamed

With polish, worn smooth and soft from use.

We turn to go and I say a soft goodbye

To the lonely face behind the fence

As his hopeful eyes turn sad once more.

And each drop continues to create what will be.
'

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