At mid-morning, the sky grows dark. Rumbles of thunder over the noise from the interstate. A small, white petal flutters down.


  1. Sense and notion meld
    where sound is sight,
    and stillness is moving.
    It completes an oxymoron
    for the day: What crack
    of thunder and flash
    of lighting would slice
    this mid-morning sky
    when the delicate petal,
    small and white, finally
    reaches the black, soggy,
    and grass-mottled ground?

    —Albert B. Casuga

  2. Wonderful contrast between the dramatic storm and the delicate petal floating down.

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