An Unvarnished Sky

An Unvarnished Sky

I didn’t expect to go out again today,
the rain reminded me to sit with a pillow under my back and
a quilt around my lets. The call of a friend woke me from
the scratches I was reading in the book and my malaise,
and I took her to pick up her vehicle being fixed 9 miles
up the road.

I have all the time I want. No one wakes me up early,
no one demands my time mid-morning until late afternoon.
The rain spoke most of the day, but I had trouble interpreting
it’s call. Weeks ago, I wrote further ahead in time.

The sky was unvarnished and paintless,
the pencil mast of a sailboat etched the horizon.
I thought of warm waves, countless days
when the warm sun and wet sand were all I desired.

All my days have regressed to mediocrity;
happy hours meet sad sandstone head on.
Like a stream whistling from the hills I
sometimes wish alone felt more like sanity.

I didn’t expect to go out again tonight,
I spent the day centered on myself. Not
selfish,
but sifting every emotion through a sieve of
old beliefs and common words that
leave me mimetic. I can lose myself in the
music for an hour
and be back to brooding by the next
wink of morning. The sky is just a canvass
for my unpublished masterpieces.