Powder
It’s a stranger’s walk and talk,
A mispelt hello in distanced mode,
Indifferent hunger in the afternoon.
Taking pleasure in forgotten things,
An unravelling of wool, frayed, undone.
Wings take off in this split of thoughts
Under a raging sun. It has not begun.
Sea bells sound a nuanced beginning
And I watch the clouds curl piecemeal,
The turning of days into powder.
Vickie Johnstone, August 2, 2020 (draft 1, July 15)
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