How solemn the breastplates of soot
on the sides of old buildings.
How hard the rind; how the mouth
whittles away to get to its sweet.
How like a rumpled quilt, these overcast skies
above clumps of streaked magnolias.
How the train moves forward on the track,
how its whistle departs in the other direction.
How blind to the rain, these small
prisms of light that fracture at our feet.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.