In the starred eyes of the quick-passed day,
the clouds take shapes and spark rumbling worry.
The night now sends hard squals in to assay
respect that tempests do levy is paid.
I have a cool idea. It’s not this quatrain from the Poetic Asides prompt (I’ve lost rhythm). The idea is from Pressman’s Home. It’s not done yet. I like the images, but still need to tie it all together. Maybe tomorrow.
Red, white, and blue rests in leaves, tattering seat over sprouted green.