Thursday, November 30, 2006


Rain falls quiet in the dying wind
from clouds unfolding like tattered curtains
on the stage of sky. A new act begins
as new players stumble on, uncertain

of plot or script. They swirl breezes
like gauzy capes, costumes of no color.
Tread lightly, winds, give us a little ease.
Brush some warmth on the sky’s bright pallor

where snow or sandstorm, frost or fire
hovers beyond the horizon of vision.
Last week’s weather is now retired
leaving us, audience at intermission

poised like angels on the heads of pins,
watching for change in the dying wind.

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