Whatever it is

Green pail overturned in the garden,
the creaking hinge of a gate.

*

Above pebbled blankets of cloud, the sound
that groups of birds make, flying south.

*

The sticky wad of silk a spider wrapped
around a pouch still faintly pulsing.

*

Pale slick like melted butter
around a rising moon.

*

Branches that gave fruit after fruit
now mired in difficult remembering.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.