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.