Monsoon

Mist turns to rain, then windows
curtain with fog.

Months of watching doorways
grow ruffs of green, fronds

dimpling the wood. We unroll
parchment on the table, take out

our inks and instruments. One of us
climbs to the roof with a spyglass,

calls out the shapes of islands
emerging from the dark.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Series Navigation← Stage DirectionsDear spurred and caruncled one in the grass, →

Leave a Reply