Jo

15

Must the Sky Be Always Blue

Teakettle gray presses the horizon—
stitching a charcoal thread—wobbly as a Sharpie line—
a permanent etch on muddy ground.
Summer sun stows away behind cotton batting of clouds.

An agrarian quilt stretches from the front porch to the road.
Not a red roof farmhouse in sight,
only potato plants—malachite leaves touched with feldspar—
corn stalks—jade poles—blanketed by the flannel sky.

Paines gray brushstrokes open up the western front.
Ruffles of indigo and onyx
stain the swollen clouds,
as soaked manure wafts through clean air.

Ushered by gusty wind—lead sky turns pale viridian—as rushing clouds
sweep the sky’s palette of all colors—leaving only blue.