In a sky that signs it’s name
on every field, every leaf,
the clouds bloom waxy flowers
with their backs to the sunset.
Let me not forget the bright
and dusty sky, the layers of trees
so close to falling
off the edge of the earth.
So close we are to running
through birdsong and tree trunks
we forget the color of pavement,
the mask of cars and streetlights.
At night it is dark,
close and quiet
enough for a mouthful
of pinhole stars,
calm enough to meld a world
of dirt and angles with dreams,
and far enough from home
we forget we had another.
