White Spruce Lingers

There is a place inside my head where
The rain falls slowly all the time
On rocks and fields and slanted roofs
And through the inconstancy of trees.

The rain falls slowly through dim green
Spaces where the odor of white spruce
Lingers as if the sun had ever
Struck sharply through the canted limbs
Until the trunks bled clotting resin.

There is a place inside my head where
The rain falls slowly through thick air
To gather in a pool formed between
The tendons of your throat as you bend
Back to let the rain stream through your hair.

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
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