Today the sky rises as a vault of a baroquian chapel
ringed with clouds and vapors. Where are the cherubs?
There should be cherubs. Somebody cue the Angels.
The purest blue. The flawless White.
Bring out the palette of colors in between.
I’m puzzled on days like this to see so few heads
turned skyward. This is a gift from heaven.
Even the landscape stands in awe.
Where is the orchestra?
On this same day, quite by accident, my eyes find
the last stanza of Shelley’s The Cloud…
I am the daughter of Earth and Water,
And the nursling of the Sky;
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;
I change, but I cannot die.
For after the rain when with never a stain
The pavilion of Heaven is bare,
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams
Build up the blue dome of air,
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
And out of the caverns of rain,
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,
I arise and unbuild it again.
* * *
Enchanted, More or Less — 2017