By P. M. Flynn
As I go higher, each cloud thins and fades again:
less than I am, as wind rushes past broken skies.
Autumn divides green and red leaves from each branch.
They fall from the sky:
brightness less than a harvest before summer’s indifference.
A moment later the light moves:
darker thoughts filter sun and moon, burning off
the gray-white vapor of eternity.
Clouds push a blue sky, each breath misting airless spaces
in constant motion, where eyes draw more horizons.
You stop looking before the wonder.
Each eye closes; the marvel harvested, lost from time
a child sees. Leaves fall. The sun breaks mid-morning:
its constant decay, distraction less than each car on a two-lane.
Time is tarnished following white and yellow lines. Temp trees
hide behind thin stripes on black, faded roads. The cool shade
disappears from morning again.
P. M. Flynn holds a BS in English from East Carolina University and an AAS in Business Computer Programing from College of the Albemarle. A devoted roaster of organic coffee and enthusiastic baker of cookies, he pairs his creative pursuits with a long record of publication in respected online and print magazines. His debut poetry collection, Shadows on Moss, was released by Resource Publications. For more than fifty years, he has explored the deep interplay between art and theology, a commitment that continues to shape his writing and imagination.
