A Perfect Breeze
Covered with fluffy sheep
as far as the eye could see,
the sky was a rare breed.
The sheep bring with them a perfect breeze
A breeze that chimes among my eaves,
a breeze that brushes against my window
asking to visit not for long.
Grandpa taught me how to listen to the weather.
How a look at the sky, or a touch of the Great Lake
would tell us for certain whether the fish would bite
or if we would return home instead to enjoy a grape Fanta.
Since that day, every morning I wake and look to the sky,
maybe just maybe the sweet sheep will have returned.
Bringing with them the perfect breeze to stay.
Today the sky is a usual blue.
Pretty, but not unusual.