Sky at Morning
Donna Pucciani
Today, just white overhead, rain woven with invisible threads in the nondescript fabric of daybreak, like a week made of Mondays. The sky’s full of waiting. Scatter, ye gumdrops of sun! Go back to your too-bright jars of splintered noons! Here is the luminosity of whatever came before, merging with whatever will come, the secret wishes of a universe caught between hope and despair. The past has shredded itself like old newspaper, the future opaque, a blank notebook 22
