The sky is
Filled with plump
Blimps tethered to
Trees by the
Dropped lines of
Falling silent rain
Above halos of
White sunshine hovers
Like deep stark
Snowdrifts on rooftops
Apt to fall
At the least
Shake of warmth
Above that days
Blue blemishes peek
Like curious children
Through the knotholes
Of weathered pine
As the deep
Rich aromatic brew
Wafts beside me
And silence silences
Every other thing
It is in
These wee cool
Hours before dawn
While I wade
In the shallows
Of my emotions
And feel the
Small fish and
Salamanders nip and
Brush against me
Tickling and dancing
Knowing they are
There simply by
Feeling them near
Isn’t that love
Curiosity and happenstance
And the chance
Of brief affection
Let those come
And touch you
This morning’s sky
Has cleared like
That upturned look
And sweet slight
Smile through tears
After we knew
We must part
As we sat
Sitting and breaking
And saying nothing
Because post truth
Nothing else is
Really ever heard
At least not
In the same
Way as before
The sky is
A work in-progress
Blue canvas spattered
Gray chaotic and
Lacking the definition
Of anything finished
It’s a torrent
Of cloudy rumors
Swirling about uncertain
Of its truth
Hazy like Pittsburgh
When steel mills
Billowed noxious smoke
Covering everything everyone
In light soot
Oh these mornings
Make everything turn
Away roll over
Trying to forget
That this day
Ever really started
Sky rain plump
Saturated clouds like
Sudsy sponges bob
About above me
Saul is tucked
Behind like hands
In gray ovenmitts
All is still
As though everything
Waits for the
Bad news of
The day this
Reminds me of
The soggy days
Of San Francisco
HARLAN DIDRICKSON 