by
D.M. Solis
How like the clouds he moves
each turn floating
into the next...
who randomly appears
wearing an orange backpack
like an afterthought…
riding a bicycle through
my courtyard
in a soft clay-scented rain…
holding open and aloft
a big green umbrella
as if it could be a sail…
grinning up at himself
from his reflection
in mirror-pools on the ground…
gliding wide…easy…circles
almost without a sound
but for a dull rhythmic whirrrrrrr
when a tire rubs the frame.