Whole by Rich Furman
Marvel at mountain rain falling in the sun,
each large drop dancing off the wooden porch,
melding to the next, lost to the collective.
There is more than this:
sleep in the afternoon,
her sleeping face seen a thousand times.
White spotted skin secret like a monk too good for
wretched world. Secluded in hideaway veiled in
red dots brown off-gray orange patchwork.
We argue of their standing.
She says they are her skin, whole.
I say they are more.
Given to special ones;
those who say prayers passing by roadside death.