In February, clouds—huge charcoal
smudges—perched on pale grey sheet
of sky & would not leave.  They pointed
to a horizon I did not believe in. How
to sail to a better place I could not see?  

Fires crackled inside, but land shivered
in barely-green grass as it met complacent
waters, unconcerned about brittle river birch
doubling over in wind & the small houses,
mere boxes, even the one that pealed a dirge.  

With such an expanse overhead—mottled, soiled,
dirty graphite on tarnished silver, shapes of vague
arrows, bottoms like rough wood shards, edges
as random as the universe—how can a head
not be bowed under shroud-thoughts?  

April rolled in, displaced winter sky with
its rain, softened earth, greened blades,
darkened bark of pine & hickory, then
peeled back firmament’s flotsam & threw
flashes of light on earth & wave.  

Now June waltzes in to the tune of cardinal
& bullfrog on a dance floor with an
embarrassment of blooms—coral bell
& coneflower & lavender gushing from
warm roots & topped with purring bees.  

How could I not foresee a sky of solid
cerulean, an ocean under which I
could soar, drink storms, skim
puddles, savor sun-&-shade
filigree on ground, navigate
a soft drift to a rose-gold
horizon, morning-wide?