Last night, you left me alone
when I thought I needed you.
Now, I wonder at the quiet of clouds
on days when the sun is seen
only in how bright a patch
of ice crystals can be.
When a bicycle and boy glide past
my window and back, and sparrows
spend hours rustling slim stalks
of evergreen. When your fingers
lightly trace patterns in my hair.
Still, the clouds, sliding toward horizons.
—ArtWord Quarterly, 2001