by PM Flynn

Clouds are signs for all water:
today’s wind blows them into frayed ribbons, 
winter rippling the sky as it begins and ends. 
I gather horizons for wonder, seeking 
the comfort of distance easily seen. 
Under a forest of leaves, looking around, 
autumn is left under the trees, along 
a sun-covered road by a river of clouds. 
Still, the leaves flutter and shade 
the reigning light, as do trees:
one sign that brings me to this mountainside
with the other 5000 who eat the broken fish
and leavened meal, to become like Him
each time I taste the bread and drink the wine,
to become the clear sky of winter; confessing 
covenant, after taking my sins against others
to them and asking for their forgiveness.
Signs, like clouds, are washed away 
like autumn leaves that point downstream. 
Each color was once a sign of winter to come.

PM Flynn is a North Carolina writer. He holds a B.S. in English from East Carolina University, roasts organic coffee and has been published in many fine print and online anthologies, newsletters, and literary magazines and reviews including Helen Literary Magazine, the Fictional Café, Main Street Rag, The Grassroots Women’s Project, Port Folio Weekly, The Mirror/Slush, Anti-Heroin Chic, 50 Haikus, Fleas on the Dog Online Quarterly, CactiFur, etc.