Monday, January 18, 2016


She asked
How's the weather there
And he said
The skies are mostly clear
And the few clouds that gray
The lightening cornflower
Are limned with pink
And orange
And red
And yellow
As the bright sun rises
Over the crisp and chilly air

She said she loved the poetry

The skies instead
Were heavy
Bubbled over with clouds
Boiling from an unseen source
Gray and gray and nearly white
But still gray
Rushing to some other end
Or fleeing some strange thing


The skies had come to ground
Immuring everything in an off-white sheet
That makes the light come from everywhere
And hide far more than it shows


The weeping skies rage
Flashing in heat and sudden strikes
Against things unseen
But known destroyed from the sound
Howling at times and running circles in anger
Picking up and throwing things
Before exhaustion
And leaving others to clean the messes
Left behind

Would she love such stanzas, too?

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