The Pale Hand Of Summer Rain Poem by Julian Mann

I looked out to rainy gardens
As they spoke of invoices
And knew there would be days again
When I would brush the cheek and hold
The pale hand of summer rain,
And she would wait where the gardener
Had just finished tending to a flower
That she couldn't help but feel within her.
She saw her pain as the mud
Tracked about the maids' courtyard,
And with the rain those stones washed clean.
She learned symbolism from the library spirit,
A mentor who was not there.
He had been in service to her ancient fathers
And warned her of deceitful men;
Omens: rainy imprints in the meadow.