Poetry

just like bone-trees, we are
fingers spindly and reaching out,
towards that great blue yonder
whimsy, isn't it, to say that
for all it is, is the sky,
the sad broken smiling happy sky
brains like gray clouds
cirrus and cumulus and cumulonimbus
and i agree it's all a storm
in our cloud-brains, all of that
electric emotion, lightning crashing

thunder is his voice, isn't it?
thunder, resonating from the tips,
the very tips of your roots to your clouds
and he is the soil and the water
and his easy smile is the beam of sunshine
and his laugh the rain trickling down your
trunk, your spine, sending you reaching up

and maybe, he is the sky, as well
your beautiful sky painted red
at dawn, forever smiling down at you.

and the sky has his heaven, she.
she is to him like he is to you,
and your stretching phalange-twigs,
they can mean nothing to him
truly, as long as the heaven exists.

she is the gaudy one that everyone loves
and he is the green grass that refreshes you
he is beautiful, foreign to you, and
she is the weed that covers him from you
because her petals are vivid and stop you.

and maybe i would like to be
the little bird on your branches
settling onto your bones for a while
inked in gray, to keep you company
to make sure you don't feel alone,
to be a friend to you always
even as the sky loves his heaven.

and as the stars twinkle softly at the sky
and the weeds grow in the grass at your feet
we can both agree that in our bones,
in my ruffled feathers, your lonely branches
that there will be another sky, another day.