The Weathered Touch


A gull turns, darkly set in maroon skies,
And wafts through fields of apple blossoms.
Spring is near, very near.

Our minds are probing thickets—
With a hand's gesture, eyes face forward
In rapt attention to the straining flight
Of tendon-laced wings.

A mingling passion, soaring,
Or lost in the branches of the earth,
Spread and waiting for their sure intrusion.

We call through gulfs of mind,
And wing tip touches wing tip.


©2016 Michael Fraley




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