The mornings sky
Is heavy with
Cream like my
Mother shaved off
Milk and added
Strawberries for breakfast
Thick with dollops
Of clouds the
Blueest of blueberries
Begins to peak
Through as they
Did when I
Was a child
Not knowing my
Mother buried them
A sweet surprise
The mornings clouds
Are like a
Freshly steamed bathroom
Hiding everything including
Planes and sun
The clouds hang
Like freshly stored
Winter coats in
A cedar closet
Waiting for next
Year or Saul’s
Heat on this
Late June morning
And so you’re
Silent and faraway
Like the missing
Last few pages
Of favorite stories
I make up
An ending fit
For a princess
Because I fear
That the way
We really end
Is the way
That we are
I’m something to
Many and nothing
To the others
Like coal can
Also be a
Diamond but likely
It’s just coal
To be used
Burnt and forgotten
Rather than kept
And finally revered
And the music
Haunts me like
Your unopened letters
Staring at them
Wondering what’s inside
But these things
Aren’t like presents
More like coffins
For what’s inside
Is now dead
A poor resemblance
Of the bouquet
We once were
HARLAN DIDRICKSON 