notebook poem

img_0404(St. Petersburg, Puskinskaya 10)

Out of the blue, clouds
dark, gray to black, and downpour
not just sudden, unexpected —
No — as if blue sky,
laughing, let loose its joke,
soaking streets, buildings, the sun
itself — soaking it all — downpour.
But we — under the arch, in the gallery,
with poets, samizdat, Aronzon
on the bed, looking up, with his own
selfportrait, the bearded poet —
And then — the rain poured out,
clouds could no longer hold back
sun — low, lighting rainbows
in yellow, green, pink, blue —
the houses, trees, shining streets
and everywhere guitars playing,
boys longhaired and girls
singing — singing back the rainbow.
The rain had seemed to be
everything — but look —
It’s not gone, not passed —
a downpour still in each one
who’ll let it soak in, and now in sun
not wilt — but burst into bloom.

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