Bracelets
We were playing gypsies
when it began,
the children and I -
stringing glass beads
and bells on twine.
Pulling thread through our trinkets,
we barely glanced up
as it started slow,
plinking like coins
in the metal bucket out back.
With a rumble
the clouds unwound
and draped the sky in silver.
I went out to wind in the awnings
trailed by the gypsy chain.
The drainpipes swayed,
leaves rippled
as the gypsies lifted
cupped hands to the sky,
and came away
in bracelets of rain.
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