The sky is soft
like lace in catch of someone walking,
A fold of fabric that makes song
and glances across hair.
I hear it now like blue ice cracking,
touching the tops of things,
falling onto the sweet smell of rain.
It moves around the wind chimes
and nestles on the open leaf.
You touch me this way,
like a pierce of fine thread sewing drops,
little pieces of me together fill a leaf,
diaphanous longing touching tender making wonder skin,
finally building a drop blossom curtain of feathered lace that is capable of
falling into the bend of flight.