Unspun Wool
(From Apple Cider by Cathy Smith, Copyright c 2016, Cathy Smith)
After the rain
I wandered
from hill to
hill there was
no one there.
Every flower was
fresh, strong and
milky, as if the stems
were drinking from the moist
green earth.
The grass sprang up
behind my footsteps
undamaged by the
slight pressure of
my passage; I walked
until I could see
nothing but the cloudy,
stretching, bathed,
naked and blue
sky.
The clouds had
wrung themselves
dry
of moisture
and were
gathered
together into
silky spools as if they had just been spun on a spinning
wheel.
The stretching azure
was vast and empty
except
for some sparsely scattered
unspun bunches of vapor -- soon being wheeled
across the wild air
into thin, wispy
thread.
After the rain
I wandered
from hill to
hill there was
no one there.
Every flower was
fresh, strong and
milky, as if the stems
were drinking from the moist
green earth.
The grass sprang up
behind my footsteps
undamaged by the
slight pressure of
my passage; I walked
until I could see
nothing but the cloudy,
stretching, bathed,
naked and blue
sky.
The clouds had
wrung themselves
dry
of moisture
and were
gathered
together into
silky spools as if they had just been spun on a spinning
wheel.
The stretching azure
was vast and empty
except
for some sparsely scattered
unspun bunches of vapor -- soon being wheeled
across the wild air
into thin, wispy
thread.