Windflowers

Zero percent chance of rain this evening,
But the clouds in various passementerie

Dangle or distend drapes of virga and trim,
For all the world as if the storm to end

The world is them, is soon to begin. Clouds
Are great liars like that. They mean nothing,

Original forms of portent, more primitive
And less reliable than stars, more relevant,

Too, until farming and sailing. Sometimes
Even then. The cat is sleeping in its nest

On the floor of one bedroom. The other
Bedroom, the one reserved for lullabies,

Lies empty. From it, a figure is watching me
Compose myself, but then she thins to ash.

I believe her observant silhouette is only
The first of my life to have been sent back.