BLAMELESS SKY


On winter nights the fog settles in the valley
and rests upon the river.
But the morning sun warms the air
and the clouds lift and huddle against the foothills
as if set aside, waiting for the night,
when they will pull apart and slip silently down the hillsides
to settle again, upon the river.


Summer will come
and hang the clouds high up in the sky
and we will lie with our backs to the dusty grass
and watch them drift
impossibly white against the clean blue sky.
And we will dream of flying with them across the sky
as if borne on a fantasy.


And in our warm and pleasant daydream
we fail to recognize them
from when they lived among us,
along the river,
in the steel grey winter.


It is not their fault,
these visions of light and vapor.
It is we who see them once, as cold and dreary fog
and again, as fluffy dream.
It is a trick we play upon ourselves
living here, under the blameless sky.

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