1 minute read
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.
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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
awaiting our script, our sighs, foreshortened dreams, our lifelong ambiguities paper boats on the clouds’ slow sailing.
The blank page of morning holds the miracle of ambivalence like a pearl in an oyster, pins belief and incredulity together
on the not-quite-silken dawn, weds the precious with the unfathomable, the salt of the sea heavy between the shore and a school of wide-eyed fish.
