By Martina Preston
I know well the wet
Of a Washington day.
The rain, its residual scent
It washes away, without hesitation
Discernment, or pause.
Both comings and goings,
Both virtues and flaws,
The trees are weighed down with
Too many nests, but not enough flight.
Sunsets at lunchtime,
Summer at night,
Tomorrow time caught up to me.
Yesterday it will have reversed—
Nothing is wet now that will not be dry
No one is happy who will never cry.