What We Look For

The cloud in search of lightning, the cloth
seeking the thunderous rip across the grain.

Gold leaf on a frame peeling away like ruin;
sorrow’s name written long across the water.

The keyhole’s outline of the beautiful one: that speck
waving, moving closer from the padlocked garden.

The cup on the table awaiting radiant downpour;
vessel poised for the tilt of the river’s skin.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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