the sky is a washed-out blue
the clouds are shredded whisps of
laundered white lawn
by angry or capricious fingers torn
the sun an almost amorphous round of ***** yellow soap
totally insufficient in any kind of cleansing scope
as if by weak hands unseen squeezed
between the white shreds
yet neither warmed nor pleased
as early fallen leaves rustled against cold pane
and brought in their whisper
a foreshadowing of Winter’s rain