Suddenly

A small domestic cloud, pale gray, drifts
above my garden. Now a second cloud.
Like puffs of smoke, this finer dust wafts
as heavier winnowed bits rain to the ground.

Not released in trickles through the fingers,
not sown gently like fine seed, but flung
in gritty handfuls, it separates and scatters,
falls back in layers: first the shards of bone,

next grit, then ash, then dust, as if by design,
as if gravity itself could sort
this jumbled riddle. The fuzzed fig leaves, the pine's
sharp needles are coated with this film. It's what

I had to wait three years to do: today
he's been released, and I've a startling joy.

Copyright © 2003 Ron Mohring All rights reserved
from The David Museum
New Michigan Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission