Parting (Fall)
I catch the parting of clouds
on the mountain rather than sky,
the baring of bared maples’ inner birch, silver linings bright
as any limb warmed,
light moving
as the crow flies.
So, we sometimes find
those lost, not
by looking up, but across,
right into the shine
of the valley of death;
so, we are sometimes wreathed
with a kindness that knows our shape, our face,
though it lies well beyond
our tracery.
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Here’s a drafty sort of poem about the way light seems to move in November. I will link to Real Toads Open Forum. Pics are mine.
ManicDDaily 
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