Set

Late sun found a path to my window and revealed the dust that danced to my exhalations. Outside, a chimney releases smoke the shade of an old mirror, and a restless blue jay flits among the mulberry tree's bare branches. The street has dried to a pale gray, and the treetrunk moss no longer wears its jewels. Breaking clouds drift and shrink, preparing a space for the stars that night will soon expose.

For now, the cleared patches of sky remain pale blue, and the clouds brighten as they withdraw, except over the mountains where they mass and the stormdark lingers. Days seems attenuated, like the aspiring pines. Time has slowed, paused, as though to gaze into my window as I look out. Does it watch me? I exhale, and the sun-flecked dust scatters.


( Sunday Verse )