Alphabet Soup Minuscule

J.C. Scheff

Beneath the Cirrus


Bits of you strike me,
Like overcast rays on a cornfield in September,
I tilt my head, and squeeze these gray eyes together tightly.
As you turn this light skin to golden.
You bring to life sweet freckles across an aging face.
For a moment I ponder,
As you hide beneath the cirrus.
Would there be reflection of anything more than what I can actually see.
For without you, my world is damp, like wet trousers after the rain.
Where will you be tomorrow when the leaves begin to change?

Bits of you once stroked me,
When the cicadas sang in June, and the corn rose slightly above the knee.
These fields now lay covered in white chenille.
My skin now pale, and the freckles and cirrus have all rushed away.

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