I believe in the sky –
Upon a summer’s noon, or after
Storm, while dust and water settle through
These rough earth pages.
At times when too-clear light is savage
On the lands of March –
Or winter bleeds its best
Towards snowy bite –
These are some certainty writ large,
And yet – most of all,
Those strange few times I see
Beyond shaped dome, what’s
Scattering fast and hard and free:
No lasting light there is
Beyond that outer bound,
Towards questioning deep.
My answer to your “why”
Is this:
I believe in the sky.
Skeleton At The Feast 