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.