Photo by Jo N. Miles

 

Still life of a Fleeting Image  /18

 

Clear Sky 

   comes after a three day blow,

  over mountains,

  like thunder behind distant hills

  the color of white light

  with a flower in her teeth

  and a song on her lips.

 

Thrown before the wind

  even the very small must bend

  and the stars come out

  each one bigger by far

  than the fading images of

  that solitary summer storm.

 

And after the storm

  when winds quiet,

  the sharp sound of broken glass

  and rusty cans fades within

  it which every way the

  jack straws lay.

 

The unnamed are a different bunch,

  unknown to the time it takes

  to open, point blank, the day

  but slowly enough to turn again

 

  before loosing whatever it was

  about her that reminded me

  of this storm.

 

 18.

 



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