Even on its brightest
and bluest days,
the s k i e s can still be outfitted with the
large, graying afros
of
old, black hippies and artists.
Too, can the s k y —
of one view and spectacle —
pend ominous
in one part,
beating down hard with warm, cleansing water,
and as well
bode cheerful
in another part,
raining down hard with sweet, slapping sunshine,
(Is that the peripheral smirk of a rainbow
I see?),
and in yet still
another part,
just dark with streaking bands of indecision.
Ironic, how, when I look up to witness Mama Nature’s
imbalance and unsuredness,
that I am the one who feels
seen.