A wet silver wind

dusts green

morning leaves

as they yawn into

mornings first breath.


Great branches, wrinkled fingers

stretch into

an open window sky,

free of borders or curtains.


Fallow clouds,

rows of twisted strings,

the hair of sleeping angels

on the floor of heaven,

drift without sound

to the next place.






Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s