Clouded
The sky is grey on white on robin’s egg
this late leg
of the day,
soon to be pale
over moon–
or you could call the clouds a veil, I suppose,
its net unrolled
in crimped folds
from a pillbox hat,
but what I’m really trying to get at
under this cloud cover
is that some day we all will filter
through grey to robin’s egg
whether as ash
or mist over humefying soil,
our bones toiling to net
a resemblance in the air
to what stars let down
when stars let down
their hair–
Only, there is nothing I can say
except, sincerely, not you
not yet,
which brings me also to the plea,
not me—
*******************
Draft poem for Real Toads Open Platform. The pic is taken from the Metro North train line, along the Hudson River. All rights reserved.
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