the sky
high up
is hot, dry blue
one last big cloud
drags gasping through
hunched, crumpled
wadded up, pulled in
to keep its moisture
from the wind
that cloud won't quit
or slack its pace
or change its mind,
direction, course,
or waste its time
on what it's lost
- but dwindling,
each mile crossed
No comments:
Post a Comment
Anything you have to say - question, critique, interpretation, praise or rebuke - is received with gratitude and interest.
If it looks like spam and contains a link, though, it will not be published. I will cherish it to myself, instead. Thank you!