Grey skies are grand ivory cloths spread
above us like an uncoloured ceiling,
but that is not what makes them beautiful.
It is the light that descends softly
onto mundane, decrepit buildings
and lonely trees, otherwise lit
by a bored Sun or a miserly Moon,
How all colors seem sharper, brand new
in the pearliness of air that remembers
rain, but forgets everything else.
How the birds do not time their songs,
how the winds will beat the leaves
into paranoid dances without notice,
forcing you to anticipate wild rains,
angry, lashing, cold rains,
Everything has a voice with which to cry
in joy or fear or downright despair
and it doesn't take a poet philosopher
to read a world in motion.
above us like an uncoloured ceiling,
but that is not what makes them beautiful.
It is the light that descends softly
onto mundane, decrepit buildings
and lonely trees, otherwise lit
by a bored Sun or a miserly Moon,
How all colors seem sharper, brand new
in the pearliness of air that remembers
rain, but forgets everything else.
How the birds do not time their songs,
how the winds will beat the leaves
into paranoid dances without notice,
forcing you to anticipate wild rains,
angry, lashing, cold rains,
Everything has a voice with which to cry
in joy or fear or downright despair
and it doesn't take a poet philosopher
to read a world in motion.
Image Source: http://www.simonsgallery.com/001landscapes.php
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