The sky is cloudy,
Mist mist hangs heavy,
pregnant and perched
in crisp grey air.
Dew drops dangle
nude bronze branches
the surroundings, gloomy
but the ground
promises new life!
Bright little buds bursting
yellow sun seeping through
green blades rising hearts of hope
centered deep in time
spreading tiny blooms of violet hues
and pansy smiles
I look up to the grey sullen sky
cast in cloudy pale lackluster
in the evaporation of isolation,
I contemplate the transformations
of this world,
It’s molten raven tempers
against blue pragmatic phases
Its fruitless tapestries exposed
against explosions of fertility!
Its death, rebirth it’s courage
It is an innate knowing,
a willingness to live!
is it just the sky or are we viewing
what lies behind the eyes?
Is it just the sky or are we viewing
the pits and falls the trials and triumphs
of human ways?
Is it just the sky or are we looking
into the lens, into the soul
of something greater yet that which
we aspire to be, to become.
Is it really just the sky?
I think, I feel, I stand here
now, in this moment suspended
silent, still, carried high, higher
highest within the force of life!
It’s not just the sky…
- J. Circosta, Tiny Poet m, 2013