mashed potato clouds, lumpy
with growls of lightning zips;
grit their teeth, holding rain.

morning mood a mossy fig
with its flesh grappling inside;
awaiting a ripening afternoon.

mud turned my shoes to
boats. from the island of the
front porch i watched them.

dressy clouds, as if modeling
loll all over town, down the tops
of the buildings, their runway.

my spot in the universe keeps changing;
where will it be tomorrow and
the next day?

09/25/2007