03 November 2010
Every cloud has a silver lining—
so they say.
Silver is nothing but a slicker gray—
so I say,
as I stand, head angled back,
gaping at the mottled gray dome above.
A raindrop hits a tooth—
such precision in such a great fall!
and I think of what's behind those clouds.
I think of flying on a cloudy day.
On the ground, buckled into 23A (low and tight across the waist),
you are paled by gray.
Clouds blanket your view out of the little window.
No blue sky, no sunbeams,
barely any shadow.
A rush. A growl. A barbaric yawp.
parts the gray, sluices the monotony.
You—still in 23A—emerge in bright splendor.
In blue. In sun.
And the gray is still there—but not
where you can see it.
Head angled back,
gaping at the mottled gray dome above,
The blue is still there—but not
where I can see it.
Every cloud has—
not a silver lining
a blue sky secret
waiting to be found.