Poem-A-Day: Day 183

Head Cold

Wheezing out gasps of air
and embryonic slug trails
under yellow rain
dripping slowly from the clouds,
caves; echoes from the bellows,
a tickling sound that can be heard,
and reheard a thousand times in a row,
reheard a thousand times in a row,
a thousand times in a row,
thousand times in a row,
times in a row,
in a row,
a row,
rowing softly through the canyon river
pledging to take only pictures,
and leave only whatever was left to begin with:
the gusts of air that pass through the valley,
and the clouds that gather in the mountains.