Gray silver rain,
burnished coins
upon the green—
first leaves of filaree
like faces waiting,
hands open expectantly.
The ground sighs
just in time and we,
with wood stacked,
breathe freely now
as cows down from ridgetops
collect babies waiting
for breakfast
and old enough to listen
for their mother’s voice.
She slipped easily away
under clouds like these.
I hear phrases now—
her knowing
and all her demons
haunt me delightfully,
words that fit
and suddenly
become my own.
She would be pleased for us,
gray silver rain
upon the green.
drycrikjournal 