The Painted Sky

The thunder retreats with a low, heavy sigh,

Leaving silver-rimmed clouds in a wearying sky.

The earth smells of petrichor, ancient and sweet,

Where the emerald grass kisses the soles of your feet.

​Then, a fracture of light through the retreating gray,

As the sun claims the ghost of a rain-heavy day.

A prism ignited, a bridge made of air,

Spilled ink on a canvas that wasn't quite there.

​Red is the pulse of the poppies in bloom,

Orange the glow in the hearth of the room.

Yellow the laughter of fields growing tall,

Green is the heartbeat that breathes through it all.

​Blue is the distance where mountain peaks rest,

Indigo shadows in a sparrow’s soft nest.

Violet the whisper as daylight descends,

Where the arc of the spirit and atmosphere blends.

​It’s a fleeting reflection, a gift for the eyes,

A promise written in ephemeral dyes.

Nature doesn't perform for a crowd or a stage;

It simply turns over a beautiful page.

​Nature has a way of making us feel both small and incredibly connected, doesn't it?