poem

 Big Sky

The sky isn't really blue

It’s just the brain filtering out

Insignificant scatterings 

Of heavenly light

But the mornings and evenings

Really are marbled in color

It’s never in doubt 

We have to stop

What we’re doing and stare—

Too much fire, yellow and purple

For any sensorium to reject.

What we know as the beautiful

Is nothing other that what

We see when a thing 

Of this world is fully revealed

Keats being right 

By the amber light

Of the hotel bar

Just before last call

But we remind ourselves

That it was just another sunset

Swallowed by the hunger of night 

Another sunrise 

Brushed like chalk dust

From the edge of the earth

A threshold below which

We simply stop seeing

Frequencies too weak to matter 

Because there is work to be done 

And no time for distractions

Carrying out plans and duties 

Of the person we decided to become.

But I remember everything true—

That flash of truth and beauty

When all your colors came out 

Like it was autumn evening

And we were the harvest.

If I squint I can see them still,

Hiding in the vast canvas

Of big sky

Blue 

5/7/24