The way the sky
changes in the morning,
so swiftly from rose billow
to long gray brush strokes,
that is the way we love.
One moment we think
we know something—a contour,
a hue, a silhouette. We say,
I love this. We say it fiercely
or tenderly, it doesn’t much matter,
it changes. There is no sadness
in this, though we weave sadness
out of our longing. Blush, it will come
again, only different, a gift
offered and offered, endlessly.
Oh fools who think we prefer
it one way or another, when
at every moment the sky
comes alive for us, even in
darkness, sweet sweet darkness,
even in whatever shade
and shape we see right now.