Poetry

poziomki

the sun breaches a hole
in the grease-paper cloud
exposing a pigment of red

which is enough for her
hands to scour under
leaves to search

with an upturned palm
for the static signals
in their bristles

that say when the stem
droops the berry
will not argue against you

unless it needs more time
to reconsider its answer
to her question

a ciphered explanation
of their weight

Gary J Hughes