April 2009

Rogue Cloud

The sky is too blue

And this early spring chill brings an unfamiliar stream:

Tightness; squeezed when it should be released in a sleepy sigh.

I can’t go home and I can’t sit still.

At least the newborns have work to do

(Buzzing from bud to bud before they burst and bloom),

But then again so do I.

In a few hours, I’ll be indoors,

Tired, and sore.

At least I won’t be home…

But still I’ll be wishing I were right here,

Squeezing by when I should be flowing in the stream.

The sky is too blue

And this early spring wind has carried the clouds away.

The sun and the blue are too much to squint at,

So my averted eyes water on the page.

This cloudless sky is merciless,

And I long to feel the beauty in it.

I can see it well enough, but all I feel is restless.

There must be something better than this…

I used to think that nothing could possibly be better.

Ever.

This earth has escaped me…

Or have I escaped the earth.

The sun:

It is my mother but I cannot feel my head against her chest.

This disconnect is beyond silver linings.

This disconnect is beyond pure.

Early spring winds purely tight and not yet outstretched.

Stretch, raise and open, become warm!

I look about me beyond this pine tree and its sun-golden green needles-

Up to the blue expanse.

A distant airplane rips the canvas,

Slowly like cloth.

And above the line of trees is a single white cloud.

Just one.

Carried by the wind tethers,

Pulled Westward,

The mourning doves call out to it.

It goes unheard.

Their plea goes vastly unheard.