Monday, 2 January 2012


At first you could see it gathering in bunches in between the green blades of grass.  Filling up the spaces  a million spheres covering the ground.  Sometimes it was thick and clinging together.  But, suddenly it would change to a ball resembling laundry detergent.  Gropple, I believe it is called - stacking up in separate little styrofoam pieces on top of the windshield wipers on my windshield of my car as I drove home.  Later, I check to see if the sky is still working. Still there is a tap-dancing on my slant of the roof outside the window, the white is brushed across the black shingles.  It pours down quickly growing mini mountains erasing all the green.

1 comment:

Mary Lee said...

What a beautiful prose poem!