With wild imagination, the sky
speaks in colors and contortions
before storms settle in the mountains,
as gray clouds scout a trail to camp,
a granite peak to rest upon,
run aground, snow and rain.
Three score years plus
of looking up—and away,
daydreaming fleeting poetry
even as a child out the window
of a forced nap—another tongue
with no letters in its language,
only colors and shapes
from every perspective,
no two the same.
Too early to know
what the day brings—
plans mixed with dreams.
Ridgelines stay the same
except rooted trees
lose their leaves
or dress in early spring
with iridescent greens
hard to imagine from August.
But the errant clouds help,
beginning each day.
I used to think that inside the deep heart
of the world gone wild, that we all wanted,
craved, needed, or would acquiesce to,
a yet to be identified
a ‘peace and love’ tranquility
where we all got along
with our dreams—
a musical, moaning chorus of ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’
that kept us busy feeling fine as frog hair,
trying harder to make life better for everyone.
But how could heaven’s everlasting light
be so great without a dark side, without the moon
rising in new places dressed in different phases
behind the skeletons of oak and tops of pine?
Rain and storm for free.
Life from dust, the miracle
of green reaching up
to seed itself
should be enough to brave the skullduggery
of all the power-hungry opportunists that slink
and lurk in the shadows. And what of poetry
rooted in the illusion of pillowed clouds?
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2015
Tagged clouds, dark, grass, photographs, poetry, rain, seed, storm, the deep heart of the world gone wild, water, weather, wildlife