Fabric
       

I just hung
my laundry
on the line
and now
it looks
like rain.

I read my book,
I watch
for drops
on the slowly
moving
pane.

*

Some say
time is airy
mass
through which
our bodies
pass.

The dry sand
trickles
still
through its
momentary
glass.

In the fine
drizzle
of a bleak
midwinter day,
a cardinal sizzles
on a branch,

carmine
fire,
oblique
to each moment's
mortal
avalanche.

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Copyright © 2019 Sidney Wade All rights reserved
from Birmingham Poetry Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission