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I haven't decided whether or not this poem is done yet:
Water drips down
Being wrung from
The cottony clouds
Backed by the soft blue
Reflected through the prism
By sunlight
The mulch
And the rocks
Lend their perfume
To the air
Mixing with the rain's
Soap that's been cleaning
The tree leaves
I inhale
Taking in the scents
From the mixing pot
It smells like spring
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