Poetry in the sky....

Favorite Skies

He’d often tell me how he loved the sky.
Look, he would say, look at the glorious pastels
painted across the atmosphere.
See how they dance, these viscous wisps in the wind
ever changing, calling out to us to take a quick peek
before they vanish into the sky’s next song.
This is my favorite sky.

I imagine him as a small boy,
running up and down the grass covered hillsides,
singing and dancing, without a stitch of clothes,
or a care to burden him, twirling round and round
in circles, until in dizzy defiance he’d collapse.
I imagine him lying there, the sky spinning above him,
the shift-shaping clouds, his new best friends.
Perhap this, his favorite sky.

Hand in hand we walk to the market. He stops us
dead in our tracks. Look. Just look at that sunset,
how perfectly the pink morphs into peach
with a streak of violet to punctuate its splendor.
Dinner that evening tasted especially fine
and the love we made was delicious.
This is my favorite sky.

He held my hand at Joshua Tree, the night
the lunar man chose to hide his face.
Look, he said. Look at this sky my love.
See the trillions of stars twinkling as brilliant
as your smile. A chill lingered just long enough
in the space between our embrace,
capturing my breath writing out his name,
like wispy white smoke rings in an ebony sky.
It’s like home. A home we both know as ours.
Forever my favorite sky.