It’s scissored out of shoebox cardboard.
Dogging my heels it protests I tether it.
Its template is the orchard blurred with smudge pots.
It was blossoms, but settled for ticky-tacky.
Alone, it scans the builders’ scaffolding. Empty—it’s Sunday.
How far down would workmen’s shade fall on weekdays?
It’s free, just a souvenir.
The waggy tush-end of being.
When we glance quickly up from our shadow,
We try not to faint.
The shape of my mind is an open book—twenty of them.
Also a tailormade nimbostratus. Unilluminated area. Interceptor of light.
Your freebie, my promotion:
The catkin’s comet’s shutter. I feel you reach right through it.