Why make so much of fragmentary blue
In here and there a bird, or butterfly,
Or flower, or wearing-stone, or open eye,
When heaven presents in sheets the solid hue?
Since earth is earth, perhaps, not heaven (as yet) ---
Though some savants make earth include the sky;
And blue so far above us comes so high,
It only gives our wish for blue a whet.
Hiking to the hilltop
To get a better view,
I found myself in clouds
That edged the sky of blue.
Standing upon a cliff,
(How high? I cannot know,)
I doubt cloud would catch me,
If I'd let myself go.
But it looked so fluffy,
Like it could bear my weight,
But then the sky 'd looked clear
From down the valley strait.
I guess the moral is:
One just can't trust the sky;
If you leap into the clouds,
It's certain that you'll die,
& when you think the sky clear
You may be denied.
What ancient tower sits
Under the patch of blue...
Exposed by tearing clouds
To give a boundless view.
Well, however ancient
And however stately,
I view it with less awe,
Or even quite sedately.
For it's a babe below
The ever-spreading sky;
Its edges - broad and tall -
Exaggerate -- They lie!
I can see the Bible stories
writ in these skies
as I pass through
ancient parts.
Slant shafts of light spill
through the clouds,
angling toward some
blessed soul.
I can see distant clouds --
fringed in curls --
as if painted upon
a cathedral ceiling.
Clouds that display the depth
of an artist's skill and
eye for perspective,
but not true depth.
(They seem too distant for that;
they're too real to be real.)
And I look up again out of the window
and am blinded by light
that has pierced thick clouds,
and I wonder whether anyone is
seeing this light shaft bless me.
a bright winter day:
thick clouds, in blue skies,
scrape the mountains.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 