The woven way a story is told
A calm before the storm
Or a bright light on a Warm walk, little is known to rush forlorn
Evening breaks the width of a stick

But a flow of a shirt or hem or line
Brings forth the underwing of a blossoms site, more than what the iris can hold

But little to what the eye can see
Nuisance in delight and for longing in the pattern of the way it falls or rests in the same instance as the other
Never too floral or too faint

But in the right substance more than you know
Ever bending just in time to show what you care for and what you don’t fully see

Whatever is most felt by the hand or the cheek and less than what a mind can read
For the feeling of it is what matters