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by Margaret Hasse
A rainstorm is turning the roof
of my house into cardboard.
Water leaks inside my house
and onto a dollhouse
where a tiny child and her parents
are placing pot, pans
and a dog bowl under the drips.
I wake screaming
with the wing of a bat on my face
only a sweep of curtain.
I don't know whether I'm a child
or parent, whether to be
amused or worried.
Bats, homes, and the meaning
of dreams are brief and temporary.
The Buddha says do not grasp.
Spring rain is breathing in, breathing out
its sweet breath.