No breeze this spring evening, solitude
gifting crystalline clarity as the sun evaporates
another shelter-in-place day. A single gleaming contrail
bisecting dusky pinks and burnt oranges, cleaving
before and after. Someone's still flying above this bruise,
shedding an epoch like a bejeweled husk:

"This long silver train makes swift passage. Streaking
across the flat country as I sit here alone. Why
should I be so near to tears? The whole trip
a dream now. It drops from my shoulders,
a jeweled coat, and I lay it aside
feeling I’ve never worn it at all." (Margaret Gehrke, 1948)

-- John Goss, Mar 30, 2020