The Sky's Forgotten Letters

He used to write to me,

making shapes from thin stratus,

gray sheets tucking me in,

with tall-tales of charcoal nights,

filtering the moon's pale face

into a gossamer glow

that sang sweetly in the cirrus,

thin, wispy,

the feathered edges of whispered dreams.

His words hung thick, prominent ashen ink

On smokey pages of the stratocumulus,

holding hands with tree-top leaves,

weaving in their branches,

whispering of love.

But it always dissipated in the heat

of the sun's golden, demanding beams,

the thin breadth of it fickle,

content to return to crown Apollo

sparkling, iridescent in the cirrostratus,

as if He hadn't just robbed the valley

of the mystery of morning.

How I long to lie in a field of daisies

and read the scrolls of cumulus filled blue,

cotton shapes, shifting,

kitted into whatever my heart could see.

Perhaps it was all just imagining,

finding lines in words

only ever made of air.

I roar deep and low,

pewter patinaed with disappointment,

and find only echoes within the cumulo.

He has left me,

wan and sooty in the nimbostratus,

constantly weeping,

knowing the sky has forsaken me.