No leaves on trees
catch the plit of drops
a cloud shakes its pinions dry
and finds instead
a flat of stone
a back of dog
a cheek of face
baptizing
earth and beast and man
as night flutters into day
and wind’s towel dabs
skin and fur and rock
leaving only a memory
shed like a feather
from weather’s wings.
David M. Frye
April 16, 2009
Denton, Neb.
