What windfall has brushed our senses?

This rocking thunderhead that scraped

the lake’s placid waters

and spun a single day’s

shadows like a wheel that rolled us

from dawn to dusk, while we

tottered our tender ways . . .

 

What windlass crackles dire warnings?

There in the gentle swells that tossed

a bobbing cork our way

with its fine magenta scent wafting

like a panoply of petals

that might be ashes

in twilight’s crimson smear . . .

RUMOR BORN
FISHER (B.?)