Poetry

Your hand is in the rain
that falls for fourteen days without end
 
and when the first yellow peaches appear
and everywhere the rain drizzles down,
 
when rusty brown leaves fall from the branches
then You are still caring before the first winds do moan
and the cold is present everywhere
with the exhausting of winter
that feels as if it cuts right through everything
 
and in the rays of that dismal sun
it’s Your love that still circles out wider.