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Rain forgets itself.
It falls, it breaks, it unnames.
I long to follow.
We are led by our own desires

Not inspired by God

The wish is father to the thought

Born from what's desired
bert is no name for a storm, more like a neighbour in green road that time back, or the uncle  i was told of yet never met.

grey flannels with braces and maybe a moustache.  growing vegetables down the back and interested in  pigeons.

even a foster parent  playing the guitar to make one feel comfortable

while feeding you a kipper  for supper.

perhaps then an apt name after all
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