This oddly warm morning,
trying so hard
to blow gray from the sun.
The tension of the muddy All,
helping herd clouds away too
with true grit,
their invisible claws
scrape sky
so can dry.
Fstop
solar twirl on trees
no one really sees.
Gray is winning
but never can kill our Sol.
Only thing wins is wind,
for that which moves
knows Air,
not mired
In the mirror there,
typecast shadowcast
from up above.
No comments:
Post a Comment