The Sky Swimmers

The clouds look up to where we are,
We, upon our windblown tufts of sand,
Turning amid precariously hung oceans—
Puddle-ponds weakly echoing the true depths of a shoreless sky.
The old grey guardians must needs wonder at us,
Our strange conceptions of permanence and greatness—
We, who think ourselves unmovable, and therefore strong;
While they, the sky swimmers, are stirred, bound, and released
By the very hand of God.

What taste, that stirs this once so weary moment,
Tempts my heart to stillness ‘mid its blush-like stain?
The sky has filled, unheralded, the veins of hope
That hovered there, winter blue, and wary
Of our fragile, silent, oft-bruised dreams.

The clouds are torn, their oceans spilled and well spent
O’er the green-soaked sprout and slowly stirring plain.
While here, my eyes are pulled to wander heaven’s slope,
And linger, hushed, and light, and airy,
To sew my heart with your smile’s seams.