The Innisfree Poetry Journal

www.innisfreepoetry.org

by Bettie Mikosinski

WITHOUT THE SHADE OF LEAVES

Thin strands, spun
from sun, turn
through days of wind
then rain, breathing
slow—the way
limbs move now
a different sound, bent
by wind—his fingers
stiff, unable to climb damp
threads, spun with only dreams,
skin—a piece of wing.



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