What veils? What clouds?
Wing upon wing feathers the view.
The door swings between rooms.
Blast of air, cold rain. Not
ruin. I’ve only longed to find
what you said you lost in a dream:
mountains dissolved in lake water,
sunflowers turning like weather vanes.
Amulets among the cracked stones,
cross-hairs in the branches.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.