May I

Reign  This morning I was summoning up  the word son, its vowel of sound between  soft two consonants.  Lately, it has been  challenging me, a boxer-spar of my own  making.  Shadow-cast.   Never striking but always striking  depending on the softness or the severity  of the light.   From my room, the wind is lifting the fallen  leaves up into the sky again.  They are rain- glazed hands taken into the folds of ground  fog, a gown of sound.  Like the pause before  applause and then applause.  Soft and then  unsoftening, while the rain, momentarily  paused, momentarily holding off, begins to drop.