I found my poem
on my back in the
middle of the yard,
eyes trained on a
slate veil of sky.
My poem shuttered
as wind bounced off
her paper flesh,
clothed in ruby ribbon
and a dust of pollen.
She flew above me,
diamond silhouette
suspended in November air,
even lift and weight,
thrust and drag.
My poor poem lingered,
propelled and tugged
in all directions until
left to hover in the
static nebulous of
her labored flight.
As I lay beneath her,
I felt the energy store,
some potential for motion.
Head turned to the side,
I batted my eyes in
slow, practiced beats.
Grass brushed against
lashes, elicited a muffled click,
the fanned tendrils caught
by notches in verdant stalks.
I relished in the friction
my poem would never know.