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Posts Tagged ‘sky’

 

 

I imagine writing a one-line poem

long enough to reach you—

imagine how the words might quiver

in the wind, how I might climb

their serifs like a thin-runged ladder

and follow the words

to you like breadcrumbs,

like footprints, like hope.

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All Night I Dreamt

all night I dreamt
I was holding up the sky
so every child
could know sunshine—
is it any wonder this morning
my arms will not come down?

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Very, Very Quietly

IMG_0415

I did not choose
awe today, but the big
pink sky chose me
and steeped me
in fantastic joy—
a drenching of miracle,
an overdose of amazement,
a wild indulgence of bliss—
oh such pink! layers
of rose and deeper rose,
and I did not earn it,
did not first prove my worthiness,
did not beg nor kneel nor fast
nor renounce my name
nor pull the strings
of the lyre nor sing,
all I had to do
was step outside
out of my own way
and open my eyes
and let myself
be gifted.

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Of course there’s the sky,
puddles of blue and
and mounds of white clouds
all around Chicken Little’s
scaly orange feet.
It occurs to him
only then, as he draws
his own ineffective wings
that perhaps the sky
is not falling at all.
Perhaps he is, at last,
learning a new way to fly.

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Not one puff,
not one wisp,
not one high
cirrocumulus,
no altostratus
no cumulus whorls
just blue, just blue
no cirrus swirls,
and could a girl
become a wing,
become a word,
or anything
that moves through blue
like arrow wood,
like zephyr, breeze,
I would, I would.

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Clear Day Haiku

blue so wide
no need to wonder
if we’re connected

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Our Names Here

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.

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Seven True Stories

divided highway
late night, coming in my lane
head lights, a story

*

the sky and I,
both of us opening—
peal of unrung bells

*

the old cottonwood
tell me, when is the last time
you climbed it?

*

that ornery face,
yep, I folded it up,
put it in a safe place

*

laying in the grass
our bodies altars—
gold leaf offerings

*

everything shimmering
how could I not French kiss
the chill air

*

that bird, wonder if
he too gets so stunned by sky
he forgets how to sing

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I tell myself
there will be more light
still I don’t like it
this scent of old wood splintering
as the roof blows apart

*

my life packed
in boxes–the urge
to lose them

*

the orchards in us
not enough hands
to harvest all this ripeness

*

one heron
in great blue wings he gathers
the whole world

*

I thought I knew
who I was, then the bars
bent enough
I could slip outside of her
how many bars don’t I see?

*

sky so pink
I make of myself
an offering

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square of blue sky
I fold it into a bird
in the pocket
above my heart
it flutters

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