My soul is wedded to the sky

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[Prompted by a friend, and by the words of George Eliot: “Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns.”]
 
My soul is wedded to the sky.
 
That great chasm of life that yawns up particles and sends back revitalizing rain; the depth of time in a breath and great span of eternity that gapes between here and a hundred-thousand stars.
 
The sky which enraptures with the play of blue behind spring-green leaves and beckons golden at the day’s end; the call of silhouettes in winter: bare, scraping trees black against that velvet moment that precedes the night but couldn’t quite be called dusk. The fracture of a storm that swells without but is felt within, and the rolling of night wind that terrifies yet hypnotizes; rarest green before the worst that hits, and rainbow hues when the dust returns to earth. Hints of angels between the clouds of night, when the moonlight is refracted and seeps under the skin. Breaking morning with the stillness of dreams, and all the flowers stretch their arms in anticipation while the trees drop dew into rivets and grass. The splendor that affronts the eyes at midday, reigned in and leaking out again in hazy drips across hot fields.
 
The one thing that we taste and smell and feel and see, hear and touch and sense and dream, all at once we know and ignore, and when we pray we tilt our faces into it and know the eternal im-mediated.
  
My soul is wedded to what I breathe, the ever-present emptiness, the closest thing to nothing and yet containing everything. What sustains the birds and suppresses the dirt, lifts up the waves at moonlit heights, calls unending in lonesome nights, but fills the senses at spring and harvest. What settles in the dress of fog or rushes in on unexpected rains; what lilts with snow and bursts with sunshine.
 
The ubiquitary sky carries all and carries me; wrench my soul away from it and I shall wither like a cellared shrub. Stick me in it, and I might sprout wings and brush up against its edges, calling on eternity.

hazy at sundown

edison

above the moving trees and silhouetted signs
above where the sun passed
a slight pink orb
colors that corner of sky
where all else is dull, gray dusk
leaving no traces of direction
blue clouds rest listlessly over the lea
that stretches out
speckled with anonymous trees and cows
the day has passed and
left its mark on the world
(somewhere)

Yet Laced

From an overpass
On a high linear track
I peered through gray train glass
Uncharted homes,
Stack of tin, trick of twine;
Uncounted people counting on the owner
Not bulldozing the land that day.
Over the backside of the hill
Small white flowers lay
Front yard of the underpass
Sprawled through wispy grass
Spilling down the black muddy bank
Into the littered bay
And culminating in a mass of silt and grime:
the black from the train
And the stray pollutant strained lime
Grain of trash bedded down
In the lifeless waterway
Yet laced with small white flowers