may makes the sound of a misty woodland

ropes of soaked boughs hang over northside avenues

 

exhausted from the growth with excess slipping onto my pants

highlighter moss a soft, clay eraser

 

blurring the edges of what is already there

something between form and nothing

 

being alive or not existing at all

a robin-song is the neighbor of my brain

 

somewhere outside my skull riding through the rain

I hear the offering of context

 

thoughts patter in a rain-coat-hood unburdening

like the bowl-shaped maple leaf on the fallen pollen and pods