I Stare at the Sky

Sometimes, when I grew bored, I’d walk out
to the yard behind the house and
lay myself down in the prickly green grass
and ponder the heavens. The
silvery wind would play about my skin and
my striped orange tomcat would pretend
he was a kitten again.

It was days like that, where wind
and orange cat vied for
my affections, that I truly learned
to enjoy myself. I’d fancy shapes
and creatures in the cotton that
dotted the skyscape, and wondered
which stars were closer and why.

One day, I knew from the smell and
distant hammer-strokes
that rain would soon put a halt to
my pastime. The wind pushed a little colder
and a little fiercer due to delight of a
recent victory; my cat had wisely
abdicated to his haven that was
a pillow in a shoebox.

I ignored the gleeful breeze and resolutely
stared up at the iron mass that curtained
the world above, and it was at
that moment that I concluded that
gray is the true color of the sky,
not blue, for gray is
the color that moves us.

Every old man that lies quietly in
the ground was once a soft, pink
infant after all, and though night and day are
mortal enemies, sun and moon are still
sister and brother. Every person knows
cruelty and kindness, and of all the
myriad colors in this endless universe only two
really matter, white and black. But the
truly beautiful color is that dull shade
which unites the polar opposites and paints
the clouds that sweep across and obscure
both sun and moon.