I Look Up
Look up and the sky
has hung cumulus paintings
of spilled milk from stratus spools
of white silk fringed with sunlight.
Others are so vast they swallow birds
and planes alike, or spread themselves
as sheets of new paper that I might write
you a Dear John letter upon.
Later, they descend from galleries
to flatten their mood over fields: a menace
or a comfort. Or lifted to a better view, are splayed
as scales, backlit with blue ocean, of cirrocumulus.
Some have risen, concrete towers of grey
from the earth with the density of heartache,
but as the day darkens, they morph again,
wisped to more spectral waves of cirrus.
At midnight, in the absence of stars,
the moon elects to peer her glass eye through them.
When the air is thin, I part the atmosphere in drifts,
I look up
when I cannot look down.
Image is my own of the not very pink at all moon of a couple of nights ago.