Someone else, sweetly, precisely,

Had written their drinkable life on.

And I drank in the appreciation

Of her words, one sentence at a time,

A good, fresh white.

Sensational, the clouds were

Pouring in, filling my cup,

Easing in, with a soft voice that said,

"Look up!"





My eyes glanced, only peeking

At first, toward the sky.

Those rain-bringers harnessing

My irises with glee.

And as if it had been there

All along, the whole long while,

A sparrow drifted into the

Watercolor before me, soaring.

It glided on the currents

That were my own world, too.

And we shared the view,

Him up there, I, eyes lifting further now.

And then the wind found itself

Playing in the cottonwood's hair.

And I smiled, thinking

About how good it probably felt,

Those wind-fingers, sifting through.

Looking down, I read the priceless pages,