From my great-grandmother’s book of poetry, Where Children Live (1958)
Wide Rivers
A small boy has no use for gentle rains —
He watches with a weathered eye and mutters
For rains that come in torrents, flood the mains,
Overflowing streets and leaf-strewn gutters.
He sees wide rivers, far as eye can measure,
And, in storm-tossed debris, boats filled with treasure.
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