Reign

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.