white rain

stood water’s edge, 

the only, a crane not near in sight  

rustled weather of a cloud and the loom of a horizon’s white rain  

where for shadow’s fin, the ring’s climb  

stilled in mask waiting

of dreams do wear the mallow of its night


stood only three by its edge, 

grandfather, the small child, grandmother  

she quiet, speaking in her stance, and him a whisper to the little one

”watch as it blows, for as it shifts you might find, wait where it stills, for there you will see it again changed, and in seeing it, so you become” 


little one skipped a rock. and counted, six

Copyright 2019 ⓒ / Forrest Gallagher