this pale blue clay sky darkens the morning.
the surrounding black clouds fool some of us
into getting out of bed. we have all learned to
no longer trust the weather wise even if we
need them. much country snowed, chilled, people indoors
know march will not step forward as it once did,
but staggers like a wounded soldier, belting out a loud
folksy tune of promise akin to nonpushing bulbs.
rain dump in the west is also seriously wounded.
brown cemeteries offer no relief for dry tear ducts.
prayers of the saintful have less piercing effect
but some of us will drop to inward knees for sprinkles.
i’ve seen promising bleak skies, the paradox of living
and going back and forth without regards. desert swimming pools
july waterfall ladders, happy and bumpy motoring–
these distant clouds come only to haunt our thirstiness.