The sky had a seam
early in the morning last Thursday
On the 7th
Dark and knotted
The color of soot smoke
“That’s snow,” the man in the van
with the confidence of a Floridian
I stopped and took a picture
kept pointing it out,
“Look at that line in the sky,” leaning down
to peer up,
watching the wound in the sky
move as we moved, overhead
and then behind the pines
heading down the road
toward to guts of the county
where we’d gun up a hill
to the very same broke – teeth trailers
where the man who had a beard like Zeus
used to live
before he died alone,
unattended was what the paper said.
He had a beautiful view.
“It’s a million dollar view,”
The flatlander exclaimed, looking out over
the metal rooftops
Of the homes down below
All day I watched the sky
Watched the line get wider and wide
Stretch itself thin and grey
Weave itself into the white
By the afternoon, the seam had spread,
To fan the sky clear out to the airport
A big old bruise
Full up with snow
In the night there was a trumpet solo
For a boy who loved the color orange
And all the people stood to clap
To whoop and holler
and for those notes rising clear
Up into the balcony
Where I sat in a hard wooden chair
Thinking about seams in the sky
The next morning, the ground was wet
No snow in the dark as she sat outside
And thought, “today is the day! I will laugh today!”
By daylight there was an inch of damp powder
on the ground, everywhere,
swirling over the pavement, quieting the forest
and she marveled as she drove into a pale sunrise
At how quickly the world can change
But she was still surprised when she drove home
Alone, still in the daylight
Snow crusting the roads, making everything
Slow and white-already-dirty
She did not laugh as much as she thought she’d laugh, but she remembered that everything changes, and so it was okay to not laugh so much, to only laugh a little under that heavy, frozen sky.
Tonight, it is windy, and there are scattered crashes all across the neighborhood, limbs breaking, things blowing off of porches. Something scrapes down by the street, on the side of the house. Garbage and trees.
She could feel the wind hitting the car on the interstate, driving home in the dark. She tried to see the silhouettes of trees, to catch their movement against the black dark sky. Almost a new moon, heavy cold cloud cover.
That morning, she wondered why she hadn’t written, not in days.
This evening, she feels tired.
That might be the answer.
She is tired.
…but, she still remembers the painting she wants to paint, the one she saw this morning in her head, under blue skies.
She remembers, also, the idea she had…the very good idea.