That Sunday after church
after singing in the choir
after getting off the bus
and walking into
the small woods
behind your house
the skies opened
and rain fell
and you and she
ran for cover
beneath the trees
the raindrops slipping
through the leaves
and branches
and dropping
on your heads
and clothes
and she said
what will Mother say
this is my best dress
and she laughed
and you looked
at the beauty of her
and the freshness of rain
washing away
whatever sins
may have lurked
on her youthful flesh
and you kissed her lips
and she hugged you close
and the rain fell heavier
and you didn’t care
just standing there
hugging and kissing
the clothes becoming heavier
with wetness
and her dress
clinging to her
revealing her shape
and the outline
of her underclothes
and as you stood back
and gazed at her
and she at you
there was the distant sound
of thunder
and she looked up
and away and shivered
and said
let’s run let’s go
and what may have happened
if the thunder never sounded
and you hadn’t run
you’ll never know.
SUNDAY RAIN.
SUNDAY RAIN.
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Re: SUNDAY RAIN.
One's mind is somewhat like a time machine( at least while the brain organ in is healthy working order) and takes one back to innocent childhood/youthful times. Thank, Anna. 

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