Poem: Grey Sky

 

Grey Sky

 

no tells in the old face 

of this tufted, eroded scholar 

waiting waiting waiting

for the prick of a dream to decide.

 

does it couch jubilant rain, vacuous mettle,

 or the terse dissonance 

of a lost windsong's sob?

all?  none?

 

a solar signet, dim in the folds 

of the amorphous envelope--

what what what why why why!--

maybe a shy star, 

urgent of brilliant seethe to spread?

 

 who knows … these …

 

semi-frozen cheeks 

of meditative monotony 

wait perhaps for nothing, no thought,

pure of hover, no aim or care 

whether spendlor erupts 

from a soft-knitted, grey-silked chrysalis.

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7/15/24