The words of city songs and hymns. His daughter's bed
still made and the rebel angels gone again.
Over coffee he looked out over fields
of broken halos, ragged dish cloths. Of clouds half pulled down
in a scramble to get back home.
All morning the chickens ran loose across potato patches,
clucking at his nails if he came too close.
He scrubbed at dirty half moons.
He could not control the weather, he only hoped she'd fall
[tag word: WILD - Christine Albrow]
--100 Poem Challenge: writing 100 poems in a weekend to raise money for EEC International.