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Late
Summer Rain
It started softly, gently,
So delicate not even
A tin roof could hear,
A cuddle up time it was
And in that scotch mist
Of things I was taken back
To my single Mother playing
Chopin, in a place and time
Where neither Chopin nor single
Mothers were treated kindly,
It was like living in a glass jar
With bible toting leering men
And whispering women always
Peeking in, it was about then I
Suppose when I started thinking
Most people don’t understand
What they read or what they’re
Reading is all wrong, hell, they
Couldn’t recognize a Goddess
When she was standing right in
Front of them, she used to say
You can hate and be angry or
You can decide not to be that
Way, I remember her longing
And lonely hours though she
Tried hard not to let me notice,
She would smile, play and sing
No Other Love, T’ill The End
Of Time, and other Chopin pieces
That still echo when the late
Late summer rain
Begins to fall.
Stephen Nesbitt ©
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