Tuesday, November 12, 2013

Celestial Portents

This morning, all dawn-trace swallowed in the silver-grey,
there was a strange scene:
tiny fragments of white,
drifting down from the sky,
as though the heavens  were flaking paint.

Nobody knows where they come from;
nobody knows what they mean.

[Post-note:  This wisp of a poem inspired Commander Buckwalter to suggest a listen to this:
Metamora, "Morning Walk".]

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